Neverending
by Enthusiastic Fish
Summary: Written for the NFA WEE. An interagency conference proves deadly for the geeks who attend...and no one knows why. Tim-centered, angsty mystery. Already complete. 10 chapters plus epilogue. There is a sequel to this entitled The End.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Written for the NFA White Elephant Fic Exchange. My prompt was "Mayday! Mayday!" ...and no, there are no maypoles in this story. Tim's a geek. He knows it. He accepts it. ...but what happens when the geeks are the target? It's Tim-centered (as usual) and pretty angsty (as usual), but this one doesn't exactly...end. You'll see.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own, nor am I making any money off of the NCIS universe. I do not own the characters, nor the franchise. I'm just a grad student who likes NCIS.

* * *

**Neverending**  
by Enthusiastic Fish

**Chapter 1**

"_We're on approach. Got a nice view of West Virginia out the windows right now."_

There was a laugh in response to the pilot's report.

"Nice view of West Virginia?" Larson repeated. "It's West Virginia. All there is down there is hills. They don't even have decent mountains."

"They're technically mountains," Keating corrected.

Larson shook his head emphatically. "Come on, Keating. We flew over real mountains on our way back. These don't compare. Real mountains aren't...green...and...they're not mountains!"

"I have to agree," Johnson put in. "I grew up in the heart of the Rockies. The Appalachians are pitiful in comparison." She grinned at the FBI tech.

"I think you're just ganging up on me," Keating said. He turned to Tim who'd been nearly asleep. "Come on, McGee. Help me out here! The other agencies are taking over!"

Tim yawned and chuckled. "Well, if we're going by technical definition, then the Appalachians qualify. If we're just comparing height...then, I have to agree that...the Rockies beat them hands down."

Johnson and Larson gave him a thumbs up in support while Keating pouted good-naturedly.

"_However_," he added slyly, "since not a single one of us has the power to change the designation, I think we're safe in calling the Appalachians mountains."

"Spoilsport," Davidson said, joining in the debate for the first time. "Comparisons are what make America great!"

"If you wanted illogical discussions, Davidson," Tim said, "you shouldn't have got on a plane full of computer geeks. You want pointless observations, I'll be happy to introduce you to my colleague, Tony DiNozzo."

"Point taken."

"DiNozzo? You work with DiNozzo?" Larson asked incredulously.

"Yeah. You know him?"

"Well, no. I've heard about him."

"You know Slacks...I mean, Sacks, then?" Tim asked.

Larson chuckled. "Yeah. I've heard him complain about you NCIS guys more often than I can count."

"Glad to know we've made an impression."

"Oh, you have."

Keating looked at Tim and then back at Larson who didn't seem in the least put out by their place of employment. The conversation steered away from mountains and agencies and Tim leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes once more. He had found himself kind in a strange position on this trip, just because he was the only person who was a field agent in addition to being a computer expert. It was like when he'd been in Cybercrimes. Carry a gun and they think you're something amazing. It didn't occur to him that it might have more to do with his attitude than his firepower.

"McGee?"

"Yeah?"

"Why did they send you along? Most of the agencies only sent one representative."

Tim sat up.

"I'm assuming it's because I do both computer stuff and agent stuff." He paused. "Does it bother you?"

"No. Should it?"

Tim smiled. "Do _I_ bother you? I mean because..."

"...because you took back a desk that was always yours anyway?" Keating shook his head. "No. I didn't want to be a field agent, really. I...I thought it might be nice to try it, but it was a distinct relief to go back to Cybercrimes."

"Well, you can have it."

"Oh, yeah, whatever. Those guys down there were positively _gushing_ about you when I went back."

"They don't get out enough," Tim said, rolling his eyes. "They should come upstairs and see how the team treats me. That would cure them of any illusions they have about my position. Besides, I'm where I want to be."

"So am I."

Tim nodded. He was about to say that he was glad, but a sound from the cockpit attracted his attention.

"Did you hear that?" he asked.

"Yeah."

Everyone had stopped talking. The sound repeated.

"That was gunfire!" Tim said, standing up and turning toward the cockpit, his hand on his own gun. Abruptly, the plane began to shake and Tim was tossed back down to his seat.

The door to the cockpit burst open and suddenly, bullets were flying. Tim was hidden, for the moment...but that meant he got to see Keating die...followed quickly by Davidson, from the CIA. He grabbed for his gun and nearly dropped it when a bullet bored through the seat and buried itself in his side, just below his waist. It felt like his hip had just exploded. He shouted and then peeked over the seat. The co-pilot...he was a sub because the regular co-pilot had called in sick. Was he _really_ sick or was he dead? Tim now wondered, but he didn't have time to do anything but fire back, trying not to see Larson catch a bullet in the head.

"Stay down, Johnson!" he called and fired again. It was like a nightmare. There was nowhere to run. The seats weren't bulletproof...but neither was the man shooting at them. Tim just needed to get a good shot. The problem was that his vision kept blurring and his side felt as though it was on fire.

"McGee!" Johnson shouted to him. She had seen that he was injured and began to stand.

"No, Johnson!" Tim shouted...too late. Her head moved above the seat...and she was dead before she hit the ground. Angry now, both at himself and at this murderer, Tim forgot the pain for the moment. He began to fire relentlessly. The bullets flying at him stopped. He cautiously looked over the edge, fired twice more and then stood up. The man was on the ground. The plane shuddered again and Tim lurched to the cockpit, never knowing how he managed to run when his body was shaking as much as the plane was.

The pilot was dead, his blood splattered on the window. Tim knew nothing about flying. Nothing at all...but he slid into the empty co-pilot seat, automatically putting on the harness, trying to ignore the fact that he was, quite frankly, in agony. He searched around and found the radio. His side was throbbing and he could feel blood soaking his pants.

"Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!" he shouted. Long inactive neurons rubbed together and he suddenly remembered how to officially call for help. His dad had taught him back before he retired from the Navy. Tim had been about six years old. "Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! ...um...Dulles! This is...I don't remember the callsign..." He gasped as the pain in his side flared up again. "...this is...uh...it's an FBI plane coming from Los Angeles. It's a Gulfstream V. Shots fired. Pilot is dead. All aboard are...are dead...except me. I've been shot...and we're going to crash. I don't know how to fly, but we're going down."

The radio crackled and then a voice came on.

"_This is Dulles. We have you on our screens over West Virginia. Is this correct? Over."_

"I think so. I don't...I don't know what to do! I'm with NCIS. Navy...not Air Force!"

The voice was very calm. _"Okay, can you see the...looks almost like a steering wheel?"_

"Yeah."

"_Good. Now, right ahead of that is an altimeter. Read off your current altitude."_

"Okay...we're at...it's going down really fast."

"_Fine, just pull gently up on the yoke...the steering wheel."_

"Okay...pulling." He moaned and tried not to panic. His vision began to blur again.

"_Sir, you said you were injured?"_

"Yeah...shot me...in the side. I..." Tim shook his head. "Altitude is...going down still. At...15,000. Still falling."

"_Sir...sir! You need to pull up!"_

"I'm trying! Nothing's happening! We're still going down!"

"_Can you see any clear space to land?"_

"It's all trees!" Tim stared out at the approaching ground. "I don't want to die..."

"_Sir, you're not going to die. We have you on our screens. What you need to do is slow down the plane so that you can have as smooth a landing as possible."_

Tim winced and laughed shakily. "Smooth? Landing in the forest?"

"_Can you see a road?"_

"No. Man...it really hurts. Oh!" Tim saw a road peek out of the trees and then disappear again. "I just flew over a road."

"_Still descending?"_

"Yes. I'm at...10,000 feet."

"_Okay, pull back on the throttle. That's the main..."_

"I can see it. Pulling back...how far?"

"_Just gradually reduce your speed, but not below 70 knots."_

"What happens at 70 knots?"

"_You stall."_

Tim laughed again, although he didn't feel like it. What he wanted to do was pass out. He put a bloody hand on the throttle and eased it back, feeling the plane slow, even if the descent didn't. He kept pulling it back and then jumped as an alarm went off.

"There's a beeping! And a light flashing!"

"_What's your altitude?"_

"5,000...I don't think I'm that high up."

"_You're not. That's the height above sea level. You're going to have to land now, sir...what's your name?"_

"Tim. McGee. I don't...I can't do this."

"_You can. You have to. Put down the landing gear. It probably will break but it might help. You're going to make a rough landing. What you need to do is keep the nose up. Pull on the yoke and pull up the nose of the plane. That will keep you from rolling."_

"I can't."

"_You can, Tim. You _can_. Just pull up. And do it now!"_

Tim pulled on the yoke, pulled it as hard as he could and the nose did come up. He didn't get a chance to celebrate because, just as the nose came up, he hit the ground. He heard nothing. It seemed as though the world had gone utterly silent. The trees took over the view out the main window...and even the glass seemed to shatter in utter silence.

Then, the silence abruptly became a roaring sound that shook the entire world and threw Tim from the horror of impact into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Tim came to with coughs that strained his injured side, pulling him from the cotton-filled world of unconsciousness and drawing him back into the waking world of pain. He forced his eyes open and looked around. He couldn't see much. He reached out for the radio, picked it up.

"Hello?" Nothing. "Mayday, mayday, mayday," he said weakly. The entire cockpit was dark...except for the occasional spark. He tried to move, but his body didn't like the idea and protested.

He stopped moving for a moment and felt around his waist for his phone. He could try to call NCIS at least. What he found were the shattered remnants of his phone...having stopped another bullet, one he hadn't even noticed until now. He swallowed as the significance of his electronic savior hit him...probably as hard as that bullet had.

"O...kay... okay." Tim clenched his teeth as his fingers inched around and pressed down on his waist. "I was...on the screens at some point... oh, man...oh..." He bent over as the pain got worse. "...they'll...they'll come and get me. ...if I survive that long." He closed his eyes and felt floaty. "No...no, Tim, no sleeping. No passing out. Bleeding...you're bleeding. You need to...need to get...first aid..." He panted. "...first aid...right. That's...in the back...of the plane. Past all the dead bodies."

Getting to first aid meant that he had to get out of the seat. He gritted his teeth and forced himself out of the harness that had saved his life during the...landing. He then collapsed to the floor as his leg refused to bear any of his weight. He let out a pained moan, unable to scream for the moment.

"Can't stay here...still bleeding, Tim. Get up." Gritting his teeth yet again, he stood...and then sagged against the cockpit door. The cabin looked like the scene of a horror movie. No one had been secured in their seats except for Keating and Davidson. The murderous copilot, Johnson and Larson had been flung around during the crash.

"So much for...preserving the crime scene," Tim said, trying to joke, and held back tears as he stared at the carnage. He'd had so much fun with them during this week. Johnson and Larson, in particular, had been a hoot to be around. The conference was fairly dry, even to a bunch of professional computer geeks, but some of the information about intelligence gathering, securing data and legal uses of hacking had been valuable. More fun had been the evenings when they had hung out together, getting to know each other, to poke fun at the various agencies. It was so hard, even in this situation, to see them all dead. It was enough, almost, to keep him from even attempting to move through the trail of bodies. There were only five...but it seemed like five thousand.

Tim slid down to the floor, hardly noticing his change in position. He just stared. Johnson and Larson would never get back to the Rocky Mountains again. Keating would never hike the Appalachian Trail with his family. Davidson had been from Hawaii. No more tropical Christmases. The tears that began to leak down his cheeks were only partially due to his physical pain.

Then, his eyes fell on the anonymous copilot who was responsible for all this. Purifying anger flowed through him.

"No. I won't...won't let this be a clean sweep. He's not going to win," Tim said. He pressed his hand to his still-bleeding wound and began to drag himself to the back of the plane. The pain was excruciating. It seemed as though he could feel bone fragments rubbing together under his skin. He didn't know if that was accurate...and he was pretty sure he didn't want to know. He had reached the level of Keating's body when he was shocked by the sound of a phone. He looked at Keating, his eyes open and vacant...dead...and felt his resolve fade a little. They had just reached a point of understanding, now he was dead.

The phone continued to ring. Tim wondered if he should answer it. What if it was someone in Keating's family...or a girlfriend? How did you tell someone that the person they were trying to call happened to be dead...and the person who had answered was in danger of also being dead? Why was it on anyway? Cell phones were supposed to stay off during flight. The phone went silent. ...and then began ringing again. Tim considered just trying to get back to the first aid kit...but he couldn't make himself keep going. He couldn't ignore that sign of the outside world, of life amidst the chaos of death. It may as well be a physical barrier.

Gingerly, he reached out and noticed how badly he was shaking. He wondered how much was from weakness or shock and how much was from fear.

"H-Hello?"

"_McGee?"_

Tim could have cried. Actually, he _did_ cry.

"Boss..."

"_You survived?"_

"F-For now."

"_Whe–...are you?"_

"On...on the plane...Boss."

"_McGee..."_

"I...I don't know. I don't know. It's...I don't know."

"_Okay. That's all right. Dulles called us as soo–...they lost contact with you. They have a gen–...al sense of where you are, but you disa–...from their screens about ten seconds before the radio went dead."_

"I don't know where I am."

"_Okay. How...–dly injured are you?"_

Tim looked down at himself. His pant leg was one large red stain. He was shaking. He was certain there was some sort of a cut on his head that he just didn't see. He felt lightheaded, weak...and afraid.

"I'm not good, Boss."

"_Say again?"_

"Not good," he said slowly.

"_We're... –ting ready to... search for you."_

"What? Boss, you keep cutting out."

"_Stu–... phones. We only tr–... –ling... –ou because Kea–... used his... –eed dial."_

Tim winced in pain, the meaning of Gibbs' words hard to decipher in the growing fog in his brain. ...something about Keating, and he didn't want to think about the newly-deceased member of Cybercrimes...not now. "Boss...I don't...know if I can wait for you. I don't know if I–"

"_Yes, –ou can, McGee. You hear me? You are _not_ go– ...to up and die. Go– ...at?"_

"But...I'm still...bleeding and..." Tim tried to keep himself from breaking down. "...it hurts, Boss. It really hurts."

"_Where –id they hit you?"_

"There's no exit wound. I think my hip, just below my waist." Tim forced a laugh. "Must not have hit any veins directly. I'd be dead already."

"–_ot funny, McGee."_

"It hurts."

"_We–...get to you now. You said that ...–one was dead?"_

"Yeah..." Tim began to inch himself along the floor toward the back of the plane, dragging his wounded body, trying to cause himself as little pain as possible. ...not that it helped much. He was in agony in motion or not. "...yeah...everyone. It...it was so...so fast."

"–_t your fault, Mc–..."_

"I was the only one armed."

"_McGee, wha–... –rent status?"_

"What?"

"_Wh–...your cu–...?"_

"I can't understand you, Boss. It's breaking up."

"–_ay ag–n?"_

"Hello?"

The static cut out nearly all Gibbs' words, and Tim knew he was losing his tenuous contact.

"Boss, I can't hear you anymore. I'm setting down the phone now."

He set it gently on the floor and continued pulling himself back to where he was sure he'd seen a first aid kit. ...at some point.

The back of the plane was a mess. Nothing had been secured...like the bodies laying around the cabin. Tim swallowed and began searching through the baggage, the detritus of clothing, food, accessories for something that would help. He couldn't find it. He couldn't see what he _knew_ had to be there. It was so hard to think about this when it hurt him so much even to move, let alone to dig through all the junk littering the floor.

"Come on. Come on," he whispered. Nothing. Finally, he slumped down on his side, one hand straying to his bleeding wound, the other stretched pitifully out toward...something...anything that could help. A stabbing pain arced through him and his hand closed convulsively around a shirt. He pulled it toward him, knowing that whoever it belonged to wouldn't need it anymore, even if it was his own, and pressed it against his leg as hard as he could. He actually screamed, but he didn't pull away the shirt. He left it there, trying to stop the blood still oozing out of his body. When the shirt was soaked, he reached out and added another. A belt came next and with hands that were shaking so badly that he almost couldn't get a grip on it, he cinched the belt around his makeshift bandages.

That brought another anguished scream to his lips and he couldn't help but give in to the encroaching blackness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Who will be having control of the crime scene, Gibbs?" Ziva asked.

"Who cares?" Tony shouted back, even though the helmets dimmed the roar of the helicopter to manageable levels. "I just want to get McGee out of there alive!"

"As do I, but this is something we must also consider. If McGee was correct, then we have members of the FBI, CIA and NSA all murdered, along with a pilot and a member of NCIS! Who knows what the man's motives were. Who was his real target? Was he working alone? It is important to think about it!"

"Not right now!"

"Shut up both of you!" Gibbs leaned forward. "How much longer 'til we get near the area?"

"Another few minutes we'll be on the leading edge, Agent Gibbs," the pilot said. "Really, we should be seeing smoke from the crash site any time now."

"Not if it didn't blow up!" Tony protested.

The pilot didn't bother to answer. Obviously, the plane hadn't blown up on impact but no fires at all? That was unlikely.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"There!"

It was smoke.

The pilot silently veered in the indicated direction without making a single comment.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The plane had _not_ blown up, but it was eerily silent, even with the rotors of the helicopter still roaring nearby, and although they didn't admit it, no one really wanted to step inside, to see what had become of their friend. The nose of the plane was crumpled, the wings were broken, and there was no sign of the landing gear, deployed or otherwise. It was miracle that the plane was as intact as it was. The paramedics would be there shortly, but there was no way Gibbs, Tony and Ziva had any intentions of waiting no matter how secretly afraid they were to see if Tim was still alive.. The plane had taken out a wide swath of trees and there were smoldering embers all around, smoke coming from various and sundry small fires, none of which appeared to be too serious. Still, that was no reason to delay getting to Tim and getting him out of the plane, hopefully still alive.

It took some doing to get into the plane at all. The main entry was jammed. Ziva had about decided to climb in through the shattered cockpit windows when they finally managed to get the door open...and were greeted by their first corpse: that of the copilot. He had apparently been flung against the door and when they finally got it open, he fell out, down the steps, nearly on top of them. After that momentary shock, Ziva was the first inside because she was the one who recovered from her surprise the fastest. Barely waiting for them to stabilize the steps (which were built into the door), she scrambled up ahead of them into the plane...and then stopped. Tony and Gibbs joined her quickly but they too were momentarily taken aback by the scene which greeted them. Keating and another hadn't even managed to get out of their seatbelts before being shot.

"A bunch of geeks," Tony said softly, but for once, that term held no derision at all. It was only regret. "Who'd want to kill them?"

"McGee?" Gibbs called.

There was no response.

_Don't be dead. Please, don't be dead._

There wasn't room enough for them all to walk down the aisle at once. Gibbs gestured for Ziva to check out the cockpit as he and Tony moved toward the back of the plane. It wasn't a large plane by any means, although Tony would, more than likely, complain that the FBI got the nice stuff while they were still using CODs to get around. ...later, he would complain. Not now.

"McGee!"

A low, soft moan of pain answered Tony's call this time. No words, just a sound. It was enough, however, to have all three of them picking their way through to the back of the plane...where Tim was lying on the floor. Even by very low standards, he looked horrible. He had, apparently, belted two shirts around his waist, both of which were blood-soaked. There were flecks of blood on his face going along with numerous small gashes, and beneath the blood, he was ashen, seemingly bloodless.

Gibbs holstered his gun and knelt beside Tim. There was so little room to maneuver.

"McGee," he said softly.

Tim's eyes flickered open.

"Boss, it hurts," he whispered, his eyes filled with pain.

"I know, McGee. Paramedics are on their way. They should be here soon. I'm going to put pressure on your leg, okay?"

Tim shook his head, a tear mixing with the drying blood. "No, please, no."

"We have to stop the bleeding, Probie," Tony said, hovering over them.

"Too late...anyway."

"No! No, McGee, you will not think like that," Gibbs ordered and began to apply pressure to the center of the bloody shirts. Tim writhed weakly.

"Stop...please..."

"No, McGee."

"Please," Tim whimpered. "I don't want..."

"Tell me what happened," Gibbs ordered gently, trying to keep his mind off the possibility of Tim dying.

Tim's eyes closed and a shudder rippled through his body. Tears poured down his cheeks.

"Come on, Probie. Stay with us."

With obvious effort, Tim's eyes opened. His gaze traveled over them all.

"We...were talking." He had to stop to breathe, a painful, dangerous-sounding wheeze. "...mountains."

"And?"

"Shots fired...from the...the cockpit and suddenly..." Tim opened his eyes again, straining to keep himself alert even as he continued to tremble in pain from the pressure Gibbs was exerting on his wound. "...suddenly firing in the cabin. So...fast."

"Did he say anything, Probie?"

Tim shook his head. "Nothing. People died...then, he died."

"And after that?"

"Went to the cockpit...called for help."

"Yeah, we heard all that."

Tim made an effort to smile. "My dad would...have been...proud that I remembered how to officially ask for assistance."

"Mayday, mayday," Tony said. "How hard is that?"

"No," Tim said and swallowed hard. "No...it's...three...times...not official...otherwise..." His eyelids fluttered closed.

Tony and Ziva both knelt down, somehow finding space among the debris.

"McGee! McGee, stay awake," Ziva pled.

Gibbs said nothing but pressed harder on Tim's hip wringing a strangled moan from his injured agent.

"Let's see them baby greens, Probie."

"...dying'd be...easier, you know," he whispered.

"I don't care, McGee," Gibbs said. "You're not dying while I'm here."

Tim squinted up at him. "You...could...step outside." He let out a breathy laugh.

Tony grinned. "Not gonna happen, McGee."

"Wait, I hear the other helicopter." Ziva stood and ran to the door. She nearly flew down the steps and ran to the clearing, watching as their chopper lifted off to give the paramedics space to land. She waved her hands and gestured for them to follow her.

"There's barely enough room to get the stretcher in there," one of the EMTs commented. "We might have to do some maneuvering. They certainly cram stuff in small spaces, don't they."

"Tony!" Ziva called. "Is there anything we can do? There are three of us."

"Possibly. Probably the best thing is for you all to get out of the way...if you can."

"What?" Tony asked.

"The paramedics are here. We will be in the way."

It was a testament to how worried Tony was that he didn't complain or make any snide comments. Instead, he moved back to let them bring in the stretcher and watched anxiously as they gently but firmly moved Gibbs aside. Their faces were grave and did not lighten a bit as they evaluated Tim's condition.

"Fracture?"

"Definitely. Possible partial instability."

"He's lost a lot of blood...not enough for arterial, thank goodness."

"Sir? Can you tell me your name?"

Tim had been moaning softly as they probed his injury. "T-Tim. McGee."

"Okay, Tim. We're going to roll you onto the stretcher now. That means we have to move you. We're going to get you out of here as soon as we can."

"Do you have any other injuries?"

"He shot...my phone." One of Tim's bloody hands strayed to his other hip where there were the unmistakable remnants of an electronic device.

The EMT smiled. "All right. On three. One. Two...three." On three, he pushed the stretcher into position as his partner simultaneously lifted Tim's battered body up just enough for it to fit and then gently laid him down. It was done quickly but not quickly enough to keep Tim from trying to get away from them. It was feeble and wasted effort.

"That's it. We'll get you out and to the hospital in no time." It was lucky that Tim's eyes were still tightly closed because the faces of the EMTs were still very serious. They met Gibbs' gaze briefly and, although they said nothing, the message was loud and clear: Tim could die.

Gibbs wasn't about to leave anything to chance. As they got Tim down the steps, Gibbs ran to catch up. He stopped them for a moment with little more than a touch and a look that said he needed to talk to Tim.

"McGee," he said, sternly.

Tim's eyes were closed again but his head moved toward the sound of Gibbs' voice.

"Boss?"

"You had better not die on the way. Got that? Just because I'm not there doesn't mean I don't have final say."

That wrung a pained smile from Tim. "You _don't_ have f-final say, Boss."

Gibbs smiled. "Yes, I do. Remember? I told you when you joined my team that you belong to me."

Tim laughed painfully. "Yeah. Under...stood...Boss. No dying."

"Good. Safe flight."

"I wish..."

Gibbs nodded to the EMTs who continued on their way to the chopper. They were gone in minutes.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"How's he doing?"

"Bad. We need to get him back as fast as we can. He's lost too much blood. I'm sure his ilium is fractured, if not worse. Feels like a couple of bruised ribs as well."

There was a groan from his patient and the EMT turned his attention back on Tim. He was obviously in a lot of pain, and it was probably only willpower that was keeping him conscious, perhaps even keeping him alive. In his current situation, it was shocking that he'd managed to stay moderately coherent.

"Tim, do you always obey your boss?"

A smile revealed gritted teeth.

"Try...t-t-to."

"I'm glad. I'd hate to have you be one of those people who disobey just for the heck of it."

"Not me."

"Good."

Tim's eyes opened and he met the gaze of the EMT. "Can I make it?"

"Yes."

"Will I?"

"If I can possibly make it so."

"Can you?" He seemed almost pleading.

"I can help."

"Good...I don't...know if I can..."

"You can."

"Sure?"

"Yes." He didn't bother to mention the fact that he'd never seen someone in Tim's situation survive before...not that he'd seen many in this situation, but the few...delayed treatment, blood loss, debilitating fractures that could cause all sorts of internal damage... It could all easily lead to unpreventable death.

Speaking through the oxygen mask, Tim's eyes took on an edge of fear.

"Hard to...stay...awake, to breathe..."

"You can do it. You landed a plane. Staying alive should be a snap."

A tremulous smile crossed his features, but it was obvious that he was terrified that he was going to die. It was equally obvious that he really didn't want to either.

"We're not going to take much longer to get you to the hospital. Then, the doctors will take over."

Tim held out a trembling hand. The EMT took it.

"T-Tell Gibbs...sssorry..." The last word came out as a kind of sigh.

"Oh, no, you don't, Tim!" The EMT dropped Tim's hand in order to begin chest compressions and spared one second to shout at his partner. "Get us there! Now!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Teams descended on a no-name hill (or mountain) in West Virginia. The only ones who didn't particularly want to be there had to stay. DHS was claiming that as a potential act of terrorism, they should have jurisdiction. The FBI, led by Fornell, said that since DHS was the only agency who hadn't lost an agent in this attack, they were the last ones who should get jurisdiction. It was an FBI plane that had crashed, after all. The CIA was hovering but since they couldn't legally investigate on US soil, they were left out of the argument...at least overtly. Same with the NSA representatives. The NCIS team was saying little at the moment. All they wanted to do was go and check on their teammate, but seeing as they had also lost someone...they had to make sure he was right done by as well.

"As long as you promise to keep us in the loop and let us do our share in taking out anyone else who might have been involved, you can lead," Gibbs finally said into a momentary lull.

Gibbs' reputation was such that pretty much everyone stopped talking and stared at him in surprise.

"What did you say?"

"Gone deaf, Tobias?" Gibbs asked.

"I didn't think I was old enough to just yet, but now I'm starting to wonder."

Tony jumped in. "Look, we have an agent who survived. He's at the hospital right now, but we also have one who didn't." He pointed to Keating's body and felt his throat tighten. He hadn't cared much for him, the little he'd seen, but no one deserved to die like this...and Keating had been part of NCIS. That was all that mattered. "Just like you."

"We all want a piece of this guy, but DiNozzo is right. We're all in this one," Sacks said, causing almost as much disbelief by his unexpected agreement with Tony of all people as Gibbs' capitulation had.

"Who's lead, then?"

"You want to start, Fornell?" Gibbs said. "Be my guest. Ducky's coming in for Keating, at the least. If you want his help with any of the others..."

Then, it was clear to the others that all Gibbs wanted to do was check on his man...just like any of them would have wanted to do had they been the ones to have a survivor.

Thus, while the NCIS team headed back to their helicopter, the other teams began the unhappy task of investigating the deaths of their own. Such was the depth of their shock at this turn of events that they collaborated completely, not trying to wrest control of the crime scene, instead, they just continued working.

Perhaps it was the fact that this had not been the death of special agents in the line duty. This was a group of the computer geeks they all had teased and yet they all relied upon for so much. With the exception of Tim and, to a lesser extent, Keating, they didn't have any experience with this kind of thing. None of them were armed with anything more dangerous than an iPhone. They weren't supposed to be in harm's way. They were supposed to live long healthy lives (or at least long lives...how healthy could a love affair with one's computer really be, after all) while the agents risked their lives.

Davidson and Keating were the worst. They hadn't even had the chance to get out of their seats. They were buckled in...and dead.

Ducky's face was lined with sorrow when he arrived, making him look years older than he was. Jimmy, on the other hand, seemed years younger. Both worked quickly and efficiently, however, coordinating with the FBI's ME who arrived a few minutes later.

There might be jokes later...but not now. Now, there was only silent grief and anger, a need to get justice for those who had been killed.

Ducky and Jimmy collected Keating...and the body of the copilot for transport back to NCIS while the FBI ME took Larson, Davidson, Johnson and the pilot.

They didn't say it...but everyone was thinking as much of the lone survivor as they were of their dead. Would Ducky end up with another body still?

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"How long was he down?"

"About thirty seconds before I got another heartbeat, but he's not regained consciousness since then."

"Response?"

"Pupils are reactive."

"Then, we'll do our best. He's responding to stimuli; so let's get him stabilized as much as possible before getting started."

"Man, this is a mess!"

"Pulse is weak but steady...a definite improvement over his heart stopping in the air."

"You call the specialist yet?"

"On his way."

"Respiration is shallow."

"How long did you say he was there?"

"Few hours."

"BP is falling!"

"Another unit of O-neg. Have we typed him yet?"

"Results should be in soon."

"Get them now, not in five minutes."

"Got 'em! Type-specific is on its way."

"Look at this."

"It could be worse."

"How?"

"I only see two fractures. Nothing in the sacroiliac. This isn't an open-book fracture. It's possible that there's no rectal damage at all."

"He can count his blessings...if he lives long enough to do that."

"All right. Let me see what we have. Looks like an LC-II. See that long fracture on the iliac wing?"

"See this? There's the bullet."

"Yikes. This is going to take all night."

"We're ready to go when you are."

"Then, let's get started. He stable?"

"More or less. BP is finally rising."

"He's within acceptable limits?"

"Barely."

"Any other problems?"

"Some minor internal bleeding that we stopped already. ...and he's going to be very sore for a while."

"Soreness will be the least of his problems."

"You want to cut or shall I?"

"Here we go."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"It's been hours already," Tony said, fidgeting on his seat. "How much longer will it take?"

"Would it _kill_ them to tell us something?" Abby interjected, pacing back and forth in nervous agitation.

"If they know something, they will tell us," Ziva said, sitting motionless on a chair. "You may as well resign yourself to waiting."

"It's not like _we_ are Timothy's family. They really should be here, Jethro."

"Vance is trying to track them down," Gibbs said. "They're not answering at home. It's summer vacation; so Sarah isn't around here either."

"He also had to deal with Agent Keating's family. They got there just as we were leaving," Jimmy said, his voice very quiet.

"Yes. I did not enjoy taking them down to show them the remains of their son and brother."

Even Abby could think of nothing to say to that. She plopped down on a chair.

It was Ziva who said what they were all thinking.

"At least McGee is still alive."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Fornell and his team were still at the site. Floodlights poured in from every side.

"Dulles has reported no aberrant contact from the plane before Agent McGee's mayday," Sacks said.

"It was a thought."

"This had to have been about one or all of the passengers, you know."

"Why do you say that?"

"If all he wanted to do was either kill the pilot or crash the plane, he wouldn't have taken the time to go back into the cabin."

"According to Gibbs, Agent McGee said that they heard the gunshots from the cockpit," Trent Kort added. He might not be able to officially help investigate, but he wasn't about to leave everything up to the FBI and NCIS. "Even though they could hear it, they wouldn't have been able to get in. The door would have been locked."

"Any ID yet on the body?" Fornell asked.

"Running it now," Sacks said and he hesitated for just a moment before adding, "That would have been Larson's job."

"Any idea on how this bozo got himself onto an FBI plane as the copilot?" Fornell asked, angry at the screw up.

"They're working on it. I told the team in LA to get back to me ASAP."

"No one is foolproof," Kort said without malice.

"We obviously weren't...and it killed five people."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"How's he doing?"

"Stable. Barely."

"He's been barely stable for the last six hours."

"I'm amazed he's still alive."

"You ready to put on the plate?"

"Let's do this."

"Okay. Slow and steady. Let's not make this any harder on him than it has to be."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was two a.m. when a surgeon finally came out to the waiting room.

"Who's here for Timothy McGee?"

They all stood up, even Tony who had been sawing logs moments before.

"Is he okay?" Abby asked quickly.

"He survived the surgery."

"What does that mean?" Ziva asked.

"It means, that Timothy is still alive...and that the odds were against that."

"What were his injuries?" Ducky asked.

"He had an anterior pelvic injury. His right iliac wing was fractured and substantially displaced. We've used external fixation and hopefully that will do the trick. He lost a lot of blood and there was some internal damage caused by the bullet which we successfully removed. He's currently in Recovery. Someone will come and tell you when he's been moved to a room. He'll be in the ICU probably for the next day or so until we're sure he's stable."

"And then?"

"If everything goes according to plan, he'll start a long and painful rehabilitation as his fracture heals. A large percentage of people with severe fractures end up with permanent injury. Timothy is lucky in that there was little vascular damage and that the fracture was confined to the ilium. Still..."

"It will be a long road," Jimmy said.

"Yes."

"Thank you."

"It will be a few hours yet. I can see you have no intentions of leaving, but you may as well try to get some sleep. A nurse will come and get you."

Gibbs only nodded and sat down again as the surgeon left. Everyone else followed suit and soon enough, both Tony _and_ Ziva were sawing logs, leaning on each other. Jimmy had mostly just folded in on himself and slumped down on his chair. Abby leaned her head on Gibbs' shoulder and fell asleep quickly as well. It was a release of tension, knowing that even if Tim's injuries were severe and possibly debilitating, he was still alive.

"I am surprised you decided to stay here," Ducky said softly.

"Nothing I can do at the moment except stand around. Fornell can do the grunt work. Besides, he considers it a personal insult that it happened on an FBI flight that should have been completely secure."

"And you're worried about Timothy."

"Can't do anything here, either...but yeah. This sort of thing shouldn't happen."

"No, that it should not."

"I didn't tell him I was proud of how he handled that. He did everything right. All he could do...he did it. He won't feel that way because everyone else died, but he did what he could do. I should have told him that...before."

"You can tell him after, Jethro. It won't bother him."

Gibbs stared at the doors. A nurse had just run through them and they were swinging back and forth from the force of her passage.

"I should have told him before. He deserved to know that."

"Then, make sure he does. You will have the opportunity."

Abby shifted position slightly and Gibbs put an arm around her.

"I'd better."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Gibbs woke up a few hours later to the smell of coffee under his nose. Instantly, he opened his eyes and only just remembered that Abby was sleeping on him.

"Well, I don't think I've ever seen someone wake up so quickly just from a whiff of coffee."

Gibbs blinked a couple of times and met Fornell's amused gaze.

"Coffee?"

Fornell held out the cup. Gibbs took it and drank gratefully.

"What time is it?" he asked, speaking softly so as not to wake those around him.

"About four a.m. How's your man?"

"Made it through surgery. Haven't heard anything else."

"That's something."

"What about you?"

Fornell began ticking points off on his fingers. "We got the bodies out, informed their families, found nothing about this copilot, found the body of the real copilot back in LA, dealt with Trent Kort of the CIA for hours without wanting to kill him, dealt with Sacks making no snide comments about NCIS in general and DiNozzo in particular, picked through the wreckage of one of my agency's expensive planes, found the black box...and still have no idea what's going on, how the guy got through security, why he tried, why he killed all the people on the plane when he couldn't possibly have expected to get out of it alive, if he was working alone..." He sank back against the chair, looking tired.

"No ID?"

"Not as yet. He hasn't turned up in our database...which means he's a first-time offender or else he's new to the country...or something else we haven't thought of. Since Agent McGee didn't hear him say anything, we have no idea if he even had an accent, although we're trying to track down whoever let him through security."

"His false ID?"

"Looks as genuine as the real thing."

Gibbs nodded with a sigh...and then stiffened as a nurse came out, obviously headed toward the group.

"You're here for Timothy McGee?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

He nodded.

"He's asking for an Agent Gibbs?"

"That's me."

"He was barely conscious when he started asking for you. He's so insistent that we figured it would be better for him to see you...but he shouldn't be up for long."

Gibbs nodded, reached over and nudged Ducky who awoke relatively soundlessly. Gibbs jerked his head toward Abby who had not stirred and then they engaged in a complicated maneuver which involved in Gibbs getting out from underneath Abby and Ducky taking his place, all without waking her. She wasn't going to be able to go with him and having her awake would only make things more difficult.

By some miracle, they succeeded in making the switch and Gibbs (Fornell unobtrusively tagging along behind) followed the nurse to the ICU.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim could have looked worse, Gibbs decided...although he was at a loss as to how much worse he could have looked and not been on one of Ducky's autopsy tables. His eyes were closed at the moment, but his face was drawn with pain. He had a strange metal contraption on his hip, sticking out of his skin, and he was very pale.

"McGee," Gibbs said softly.

Tim's eyes opened, glazed with both pain _and_ painkillers (but obviously not enough of the latter and too much of the former).

"B-Boss..." He took a trembling breath and tried to sit up. Instantly, the nurse was there.

"Agent McGee, you_ must_ stay still." She gestured for Gibbs to come closer.

"What is it, McGee?"

"M-Man...he..." Tim's eyes closed as a wave of pain washed over him.

"Tim, we can do this later," Gibbs said.

Tim's hand, laden with an IV, shot out and grabbed Gibbs' arm is a weak grip.

"No. No...now...he...saw him..."

"Who?"

Fornell had been telling himself that he was going to keep his mouth shut, but he couldn't.

"The copilot, Agent McGee?" he asked, a trace of eagerness in his voice that he just couldn't suppress.

Tim's eyes moved back and forth between Gibbs and Fornell as he nodded.

"He...he was...th-th-there." Deep trembling breaths as he tried to master the pain he was obviously feeling.

"Where, Tim?" Gibbs asked, a gentle hand on Tim's shoulder, trying to give him the strength Tim lacked at the moment.

Tim's eyes closed and then opened again. Tears made slow tracks down his cheeks. "Should...have remembered...should have...known...but..."

"Where did you see him?" Fornell asked.

"The...conference...entry...the...in the background...hovering...always...but I..." Tim moaned in pain, his breathing now pained gasps. The nurse was back.

"That's enough, Agent McGee. You need to let us help you now."

"No...not yet. Have...to do...my job."

Gibbs squeezed Tim's shoulder. "You have, Tim. You already have. Rest now and let us do our part."

"They...shouldn't have died..."

"No, they shouldn't have," Gibbs agreed, "but it isn't your fault. You did the right thing, Tim, every step of the way. I'm proud of you."

Tim's eyes locked on Gibbs, as if searching for any evidence that Gibbs was lying.

"It's not your fault, McGee," he said again.

Tim's mouth screwed up as if he was trying to keep from crying and Gibbs gestured for the nurse to come back. She began straightening Tim in bed and then fiddling with the IV bag. She injected an analgesic into it and gave Gibbs a look. He nodded.

"Rest, McGee. We'll be back later on."

"Promise?"

"I promise. Where's your family? We've been trying to call them."

"S-Special retreat. No outside...c-c-contact." Tim tried to smile. "...I...was supposed...to go with them."

"Why didn't you?"

"Conference. M-More interesting than...c-c-camping." His eyelids were fluttering as drowsiness took the place of pain.

"Camping? Your _dad _is camping?"

"Not...real camping...just...out in the...forest...No...no cell..." Tim's eyes closed.

"Where is it?"

"New Yorrrr..." Tim never made it to the final 'k'. His body relaxed as the pain was finally alleviated.

Gibbs waited to see if Tim was going to come awake again, but the nurse smiled.

"Finally. I hate it when my patients resist getting cared for."

"He's too dedicated to his work," Gibbs said.

"Obviously. He'll sleep for hours now. If they want to, his friends can come in, two at a time and sit, but he probably won't wake until the afternoon at the earliest. It would be good if you could track down his family."

"We're working on that. Thank you."

She nodded and then made some shooing motions. Taking the none-too-subtle hint, Gibbs and Fornell walked out of the ICU and down the hall, both rather subdued.

"You'll check on that?" Gibbs asked.

"You better believe it. That also changes our focus. He wanted something with the people on this plane. Who knows which one or if it was just all of them together, but he wanted them."

"Yeah."

"Might want to put him under guard."

"Yeah."

"Gibbs, you all right?"

Gibbs nodded, but he was preoccupied by his view of Tim. He wasn't sure why exactly. It wasn't as though he hadn't seen things like this before...hadn't _been _in as bad shape himself before. ...but it was Tim. Like Tony had said before, it was the computer geeks. They shouldn't be taken out like that. It was against some sort of unwritten law...like the boys who watched over the luggage in medieval wars. You didn't attack them because they were unarmed and were not supposed to be a part of the battle. It showed a disregard for how things should be on the rare occasions when they _were _targeted. It changed the fight from that of rivaling nations to a personal attack. The techs were a part of the army but they weren't the fighters. Tim was, to an extent, but he was still the computer geek of the team and that was how Gibbs generally saw his role.

"I don't care how long it takes," Fornell said with sudden fire. "We're going to figure this out and take down anyone else who might be involved. It's one thing to go after the agents...but do you know that I don't think Larson had seen the light of day in years? I asked him once if he even knew what the sun looked like."

"Keating was the same, except for those few months when he was part of my team."

"Man, this sucks."

"Yeah."

They reached the waiting room. Ducky was awake, waiting for Gibbs' return.

"Well, I'm going to go and grab forty winks and then we'll get going on this," Fornell said. He gave a brief salute to Ducky before walking away.

"What was it, Jethro?" Ducky asked.

"McGee had remembered something and felt he had to tell us about it right now."

"Yes, that makes sense, I suppose."

"His family's on some sort of wilderness retreat somewhere in New York. One of those communing with nature and leaving the world behind things from what McGee said."

"No contact then?"

"Exactly...and I couldn't even get what part of New York they were in out of him."

"I'm sure that wasn't foremost on his mind."

"No." Gibbs sighed and sat beside Ducky.

"That bad, Jethro?"

"Yeah." Gibbs squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "McGee could barely string two words together, he was in so much pain. Soon as they gave him some painkillers, he was out."

"That's to be expected."

"Which part?"

"Both, I'm afraid. If Timothy's pelvis is indeed broken, it is a most painful injury."

Gibbs yawned widely and looked at his watch. Four-thirty. It was much too early.

"You should get some more sleep, Jethro."

"I think I will. They're allowing two visitors at a time, but McGee's likely to be out for quite a while."

"I'll pass the message along."

"We're going to get to the bottom of this," Gibbs said, slumping down in the chair and letting his head fall back.

"I'm sure you will." Ducky's voice was coming from very far away.

Gibbs, even as angry as he was, as worried as he was for Tim, felt his body begin to shut down, getting the sleep it insisted it needed.

_At least I told him it wasn't his fault..._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Nothing, sir."

"Nothing?"

"No."

Fornell swore feelingly. This guy couldn't have done everything on his own, but there was no indication that he hadn't been operating independently...and crazily.

"No identification. No address. No fingerprints. No record of him at all?"

"No." Sacks looked frustrated as well.

Fornell swore again.

"No one is perfect, Sacks!"

"Well, this guy's dead. That's pretty far from perfect."

Shaking his head, Fornell got up and stalked away from his desk, Sacks trailing after him. This just didn't make any sense. It had been four days of solid searching and still they had absolutely nothing. With the clandestine assistance of the CIA _and_ the NSA, plus the help of NCIS, it didn't make sense that they'd find nothing. Everyone had a trail...somewhere.

...except for this guy.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Regaining consciousness was about the hardest thing Tim felt he had ever done. It was certainly the most painful. Each breath pressed painfully against his bruised ribs. Every motion, no matter how minute, sent pain radiating outward from his hip. It seemed melodramatic to say that it felt like a red-hot poker was being jabbed into his hip...but melodrama seemed to fit in with what he was experiencing.

"McGee?"

Belatedly, he realized that he was squeezing someone's hand...very tightly. He didn't remembering grabbing it. He just knew that every throb made him squeeze more tightly.

"McGee, are you awake?"

"Timmy?"

Tony and Abby. Tim opened his mouth to say hello (although he kept his eyes closed almost as tightly as he was squeezing someone's hand).

All that came out was a soft whimper.

"Abby, hit the call button. I can't reach it. It's going to be okay, McGee."

"N-Not okay...not okay," he whispered through gritted teeth.

"It will be, Tim. Promise."

Abby's voice receded...leaving Tim with the inescapable conclusion that it was _Tony's_ hand he was squeezing so desperately. Not that it mattered. Another wave of pain washed over him and he moaned.

"I got ya, McGee. Don't worry."

"Easy...for...you to say," Tim ground out.

"Yeah, I know." Tony's voice was soft with regret.

Tim risked opening his eyes just a bit, as if that might make the pain worse.

"It hurts, Tony," he said and felt tears running down his cheeks.

"Here he is!" Abby said.

Tony's face looked away toward the door. "Hey, he's really hurting. Shouldn't you be doing something to _stop_ that?"

"Agent McGee, welcome back."

Tim wrenched his eyes off Tony and onto the man who must be his doctor. For some reason, shifting his gaze was extremely difficult. He didn't say anything in response to the greeting.

"I understand that you're in a bit of pain."

Tim let out a laugh that was more sob than anything else.

"Okay, the nurse should be here soon. What we're going to do is set up a lower continuous dose of analgesics to help manage your pain. Once we're sure of the dosage there, we'll add a PCA which will allow you to give yourself more if the pain gets suddenly worse."

"Isn't that risky? What if he accidentally gives himself too much?" Abby asked.

"It's monitored. There's an upper limit allowed." He looked back at Tim. "How does that sound?"

"When?" Tim asked, wishing they'd stop talking and get around to taking the pain away...now would be good.

"As soon as the nurse gets here which should be any moment now."

Tim nodded and closed his eyes, trying to be patient. Tony, for a wonder, didn't complain about Tim holding onto his hand as if his life depended on it. Abby slipped and arm around his shoulders but, thankfully, didn't squeeze him.

"Hey, McGee," Tony said, his voice full of forced nonchalance.

"Yeah?" Tim breathed.

"We've been trying to find your family but New York's a big state. Where exactly are they on this retreat thingy?"

Tim cracked open his eyelids again. "H-How...did you know...where they...were?"

"You told Gibbs about it already."

"I did?"

"Yeah. Right after you got out of surgery."

Tim was distracted from answering by a nurse coming in. He watched as she set up a new IV bag and waited for a relief from the terrible pain.

The others were aware of the drug taking effect less by the motions of the medical staff than by the gradual loosening of Tim's grip on Tony's hand. Tim gave a shaky sigh and more tears leaked out of his reclosed eyes.

"Better?" the doctor asked.

Tim nodded silently.

"Are you ready to hear your current status, Agent McGee?"

Tim sniffed noisily and gave a shaky laugh. "B-Battered and...broken?"

"In layman's terms."

"In..._not_ layman's terms?" Tim opened his eyes, almost fully this time.

"Your pelvis was fractured, Agent McGee. Specifically your right ilium. The bullet also caused some vascular damage although thankfully that was minimal. You lost a lot of blood which was replaced by means of a number of transfusions. We have your hip externally fixated in the hopes that it will heal fully. It may not. Pelvic fractures can sometimes not heal completely."

"What does that mean?" Tim asked, his voice soft.

"It means that we will do our best to help you regain full function, but there could be some complications."

"Such as?"

"Chronic bone pain. Pelvic weakness. Rectal malfunction. You could develop a risk for blood clots if the veins and arteries get tangled up. With the external fixation, you could face debilitating infections. Even if everything goes exactly right, you have weeks and months of rehabilitation ahead of you."

Tim's expression didn't change but he swallowed convulsively. "Is there any good news?" he asked, his voice softer than ever.

"Yes. You are alive. There _is_ a good chance that you _will_ regain full functioning. You've stabilized and will be moved to a regular room tomorrow. We'll be monitoring you for the rest of the day. Should everything go according to plan, we'll install the PCA this evening and that will help both you _and_ us in managing your care."

Tim swallowed again and nodded, trying to pretend he felt reassured. The doctor didn't appear convinced.

"This is only the beginning, Agent McGee. Things could go many different ways. Let's just take it a day at a time for now, all right?"

Tim nodded again. The doctor gave him a sympathetic smile and left them in silence. Tim took a breath and felt some pain but considering the agony he'd been in before, this was easily manageable.

"McGee?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I have my hand back now?"

Tim laughed a little and let go of Tony's hand. "Sorry."

"No problem. I'm a tough guy. I just wanted to make sure you remembered that the hand belongs to me."

"You can have it," Tim said, trying to smile. "Where's everyone else?"

"Only two allowed in at a time. It was our turn. The others are either at work or in the waiting room."

"How long?"

"Four days since you came to the hospital."

"Find anything yet?" Tim asked looking at them both.

"About what?" Abby asked.

"Abby, I'm hurt, not stupid."

Abby looked at Tony.

"Hey...guys. What is it?"

"We haven't found anything, Tim," Abby said finally.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean...we have no idea why that guy killed all those people."

"Well, who _is_ he?"

"We don't know, Probie."

"You don't know?" Tim looked at them in astonishment. "How could you not know?"

"Tim, we...we've been working, but...but we can't even find out the guy's real name."

Perhaps it was the lingering pain, perhaps the painkillers now blunting that pain...maybe it was just the strain, the horror of what had happened before but Tim couldn't take in what they were saying.

"Four days. We've solved cases in less than four days. You can't even find out _anything_? Not even the guy's name?"

"Everyone's still working, Probie."

"Is it because it was a bunch of geeks who bought it...not the big tough agents?" Tim asked, feeling strangely angry. "We're not important enough? No one really cares about us?"

"No!" Abby said, stung. "No, Tim! That's not it at all! You know better than that."

"Do I?" Tim asked and then closed his eyes as a particularly sharp jab of pain hit him and his hand strayed to his hip. He took a few deep breaths. He was silent for a few seconds and then... "I'm tired. You guys can go. I'm just going to sleep."

"Probie..."

Tim didn't respond. He kept his eyes closed and leaned back in the bed. Tony and Abby looked at each other in alarm but withdrew as Tim had said. They walked back to the waiting room and saw Gibbs, Ducky, Ziva and Jimmy sitting there.

"How is he?" Jimmy asked.

"He woke up and they gave him some more painkillers. Doc said they'll move him to another room tomorrow...but..." Tony trailed off.

"What?" Gibbs asked.

"Tim went...a little hinky," Abby said.

"Hinky?" Ziva asked. "What do you mean?"

"Well, he asked us what we'd found so far...and...when we told him we haven't found anything yet he just..."

"...got mad at us, accused us of not trying hard enough, of not caring about the people who died because they were computer geeks."

"Really? That doesn't sound like Timothy."

"I told you...weird."

"He said he was going to go back to sleep and asked us to leave."

"Well, I'm afraid Mr. Palmer and I must return to NCIS. Agent Fornell has requested our assistance with some questions about the autopsies."

"I'll come back with you," Abby said quickly. "I want to run that gun again. Maybe I can get more of the serial number this time."

"...and there's got to be more on the security tapes from LAX," Tony said. "I think I'll head back, too."

Ziva looked at them both suspiciously, but then shrugged. "Gibbs?"

"I'll wait around here for a while longer, see if McGee feels like talking when he wakes up."

"Should he remained unchanged, Jethro, I would suggest you mention that to his doctor. It could simply be a delayed reaction to what happened, but it's better to be safe than sorry."

Gibbs nodded.

"I shall go back with Tony," Ziva said finally. "If McGee truly _is_ angry about our lack of progress, I will do better by moving the case along than sitting here." She stood and turned to follow but paused. "I would like to know how he is doing, though, Gibbs."

"You'll know."

"Very well." Ziva hurried after Tony, leaving Gibbs alone to consider the strange turn of events. The lack of progress was certainly frustrating. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen Fornell so upset about a case. They all had felt rather protective of their computer geeks, no matter what Tim thought. It was precisely _because_ they weren't field agents that everyone was so determined to figure out what had happened. He'd been worried about Tim feeling guilty for surviving, not angry that they hadn't solved the case yet.

He wasn't sure which worried him more.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

It was about an hour later when Gibbs decided to go and sit beside Tim, waiting for him to awaken. He did...another hour after that...and Gibbs could see the moment he really was connected with the world around him because there was a shadow of pain in his eyes, although nothing like before.

"McGee?"

Tim shifted his head and looked at Gibbs, saying nothing.

"You all right?" he asked finally.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Well...let me tell you, Boss...I had kind of...a bad day," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, his eyes filling with tears.

"Tell me."

"Are you going to find them, Boss?" Tim asked, almost begged.

"We're going to do our best, McGee, just like always."

"But are you going to find them?"

"If we can."

"That's not good enough!" Tim shouted suddenly and then winced at the injudicious movement.

"Why not?"

"You never say...never say _if_. It's always that we _will_ do something. Why is this time the exception?"

"We've had a slow start, McGee. You know how it goes. Trails go cold pretty quick, and it's already been four days just since the crash. This guy isn't in the system, except under a false name with an address, social security number and even a date of birth that don't exist. That's all we have. No fingerprints in the system. No DNA in the system. McGee, we don't have anything so far."

"Why not?"

"Tim, why is this bothering you so much? You know how investigations work."

Tim closed his eyes, his hands straying down to the metal rods protruding from his pelvis.

"Talk to me, Tim. What's wrong with you?"

"Let's see," Tim whispered, tears rolling down his cheeks. "I was on a plane, you know? It's supposed to be so safe. I was with people I considered friends. We were having fun. We were talking. ...and then...then, it's like something out of a bad mystery novel...and before I know it...everyone's dead. Every single one. Except me." Tim began to sob. "And...and I had to watch them all die. One by one. Keating and...Davidson first. Then, Larson. And then...then, Johnson saw that I was...that I'd been shot and she was trying to get to me to help me. ...and he killed her, Boss. I was trying to shoot him, but it was so hard to aim."

Gibbs reached out and grabbed Tim's arm, pulling his hand away from the external fixator.

"I wanted to die. It hurts so much...but I'm the one who survived...and we don't know why he did it. What if it was me he was going for? ...and I'm the one who survived... and I just want it to be over." Tim cried quietly, tears coursing down his cheeks, following the network of stitches on his cheek.

"Tim, no matter what that guy's twisted reasons might end up being, what happened on that plane was not your fault."

"...but why haven't you found anything yet?" Tim asked.

"Sometimes we don't."

Tim's breakdown from Gibbs' simple statement was shocking. His tears went from silent to incredibly noisy. His sobs became choking sounds as he lost the little control he had over himself.

"Tim!" Gibbs sat down on the edge of the bed and eased an awkward arm around Tim's shoulders. "Hey, calm down. It's all right."

Tim shook his head.

"No. No, it's _not_ all right," he choked out. "It's not all right!"

"Why not?"

"I don't...I don't want it to be for nothing! I don't want it to be random. I don't want it to be a mistake. I want there to be a _reason_! I want...I _need_ to know that they didn't die for nothing!"

"Would that really help, McGee?"

"Yes! They're...they're all dead anyway...but...but if...if it was _because_ of something...at least there would be a reason."

Gibbs waited patiently while Tim's sobs calmed. When he judged that the breakdown had eased, he squeezed Tim's shoulders lightly.

"Tim...right now, we don't know _why_ he did what he did. That's just the way it is. That doesn't mean we won't find something later on."

"What if we don't?"

"Then, it will turn into a cold case that we'll work on when we can. It might end up being that this guy simply went nuts and chose a plane at random."

Tim stiffened.

"It might, McGee, and you need to be prepared to accept that. However, it doesn't look like that's what happened. He was too well-organized, too well-prepared for him to be a loony."

Tim didn't seem at all comforted by that. The uncertainty seemed to be causing him more pain than his fractured pelvis.

"Besides, even if he was, their deaths won't be meaningless, their lives won't be. The way or the reason someone dies doesn't negate the good they did."

"I know," Tim said softly.

"And you know what, McGee? That crash accomplished a small miracle."

"What?"

"I think it's the first time NCIS, the FBI, the CIA and the NSA have willingly worked together, and not tried to either kill each other or make each other look stupid. Who would have known that the computer geeks could make everyone so cooperative?"

As he'd hoped, Tim let out a shaky laugh in response and then wiped away some tears. "We got along really well at the conference."

"I'm sure...probably because no one else could understand what you were saying to each other. You all right?"

Another weak laugh. "I'm sorry, Boss. I...don't know where that...that came from."

"I do, Tim. I know. I understand." He stood, letting Tim lean back on the bed.

Tim's eyes slid closed. "They deserve it."

"What?"

"To have their case closed, to be...to get justice."

"The guy who killed them is already dead."

Tim nodded, obviously falling headlong back into sleep. "...but if there's more...if he was only one..."

"We won't give up, McGee. I promise."

"Thanks, Boss."

"Hey, McGee, before you fall asleep again, tell me: where in New York is your family?"

"Don't...remember the name of the place." Tim yawned and then winced. "...I...have a brochure...in my apartment. Abby's...got a key. So does...Ziva."

"Why both of them?"

"Ziva's closest to me. Abby's...from...before."

Gibbs grinned and was glad that Tony hadn't been there to hear it. He doubted whether even Tim's current state of injury could keep Tony from probing and prodding about any kind of relationship Tim might or might not have with his fellow NCIS employees. "Right. We'll track them down for you, McGee."

"Thanks...Bossssss." And he was out.

Gibbs watched his body relax and then left.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It took another two days to track down Tim's family. The brochure was easy enough to find but there was no phone number on it...because it had been torn. Then, when they found it, they had the problem of not being able to contact the people in charge. When they did, it turned out that there had been a storm and even the radios the guides had weren't working. Finally, _finally_, they were able to tell them what had happened to Tim with the result that they moved heaven and earth to get to DC. When they arrived, Vance spoke with them personally, updating them on the facts of the case, the ones that could be shared at any rate. The doctors explained Tim's physical status, and Gibbs spoke with them about his mental status, just because he had seen it for himself. They accepted all the news, both good and bad, with an uncommon degree of poise and calm. If anyone thought it strange, Sam's confinement to a wheelchair at least gave a hint as to why it was possible. They'd already been through stuff like this. Hard it was, but they had experience dealing with it.

They were there with Tim almost constantly over the next few weeks as his fracture healed and he looked forward to (and dreaded) the upcoming rehabilitation. It was good thing he had his family there because the NCIS team was consumed by the need to solve the case (as well as doing their regular job). They all came as much as they could...but that wasn't much. It wouldn't have been enough and Tim having a supportive family lessened the worry they might have had about leaving him alone fighting the near constant pain of a healing wound and the beginning of his rehabilitation, which would be lengthy.

Tim's recovery seemed to be going according to plan...which was good because the investigation wasn't. They knew no more than that the airport hadn't screwed up because the copilot's ID had been perfect. He was in the system, but there was no indication as to who had put him there. No terrorist group had claimed responsibility. No one had even come to claim his body. Interviews with the families of the other victims had turned up nothing. They had all promised to keep Tim updated on the "progress" they made, but while he never broke down again and seemed to accept that this wasn't going to be solved quickly, there was a flicker of something in his eyes every time they told him about the lack of progress.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"Where is McGee?" Ziva asked the nurse in Tim's room.

The nurse just gave her a look.

"I did not think his rehabilitation was until later today."

"He got it rescheduled. Said he was tired of sitting around."

"Is it wise for him to be putting so much pressure on himself?"

"His physical therapist is keeping track. You can go up and see him, if you'd like."

Ziva nodded and left the room. Even six weeks after the crash, Tim was only able to walk a few steps unsupported. He was supposed to be getting the external fixator removed in the next week, but he was impatient, full of that same strange intensity which had taken the place of his anger, of his grief. It was slightly disconcerting for them all to see. He hid it tolerably well, but he couldn't hide it completely. He wanted to get back to work and he couldn't do that if he couldn't move.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Sweat poured down his face and mingled with the tears as he struggled to make it across the bar. The stupid thing was only about fifteen feet long but it had defeated him every time as his weak pelvis resisted his attempts to bully it back to full functioning. He was three quarters of the way across when he began to sag against the supports. Nathan, his physical therapist, was right there.

"Tim, you're done."

"No..." Tim gasped out, trying to lever himself upright again. "I'm almost there."

"No," Nathan said firmly. "You're done for today."

Tim thought about fighting Nathan off and finishing it anyway, but his arms were shaking with the effort of keeping him from collapsing. How was it possible that a mere seven weeks ago, before the crash, he had walked around without even _thinking_ about it and now he was so injured that his leg trembled at the slightest weight? It was his pelvis that was healing, not his leg; so he was annoyed, as Nathan manhandled him him back into his wheelchair, that his leg had decided it got the time off as well.

"Hello, McGee."

Settled back in his chair with the loathsome rods sticking out of his skin, Tim swept his sweaty hair back on his head and looked up in surprise.

"Ziva...what are you doing here?"

"Coming to see you, but I had thought I would find you in your room."

"I was busy."

"Yes, I can see that. I will take him."

"I'm not done yet," Tim said, fiercely, looking at Nathan in annoyance.

"Yes, you are," Nathan said, completely unfazed by Tim's expression. "Don't let him fool you into thinking he can run laps yet."

"I did not think that was the case."

Tim hated it when they talked about him as if he wasn't there. It was irritating, but he said nothing as Ziva began to wheel him back to his room. Her silence was expectant, as if she wanted him to say something, but he knew that she didn't have any good news. If they had found anything after so long, it would have been the first thing she said...in fact, they'd probably all be there to say that _something_ had been done. Although they didn't talk about it, Tim knew that the team was working other cases now. The FBI was still on it...but only because Fornell had point-blank refused to give it a cold case designation. Tim knew why that couldn't happen at NCIS. There was only one MCRT at Headquarters. They had to be available. Other teams could look at cold case files...as could they when there was the opportunity to do so.

They didn't know it but he had no intention of leaving it up to them. They didn't have time, but as soon as these hospital people allowed him to leave, he would have plenty of time on his hands...and _he_ would find out who the man was. It was up to him, no one else. Not because they couldn't, but because the case had nothing to do with them. It wasn't about Fornell or Kort or even Gibbs. It was about Tim...because he had been there. He was the only survivor and he would have to...

"McGee?"

"Yeah?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Frustrated. Aching. Wimpy. Take your pick."

"Angry?"

"No," he lied.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. I think I know my own mind, Ziva."

"Well, I can add another to your list."

"What's that?"

"Grumpy."

"I just want to get better, to get out of here, to get..."

"Revenge?" she asked quietly.

"I already did that. The guy who crashed the plane is dead...and I killed him."

"Yes, that is true," Ziva agreed as they reached the elevator...and she did _not_ push the button. "It does not appear that it is enough for you, however."

"I'm not like you, Ziva," Tim retorted, wishing he could move enough to see her face. She was standing behind him and it was kind of annoying.

"In what respect?"

"I don't need to get revenge. I want to leave the hospital...which any one of you would want in my position and you act like it's a frightening idea for me to actually _want_ to get back to my life."

Ziva walked around and stared at him intently. "That is because we do not think that is why you are in such a hurry to go."

"Since you know me so well, why don't _you_ tell _me_ what I think."

"You think that if you were free to pursue the case you would be successful where we have failed. You think, although you are probably not sure why, that there is more to this case than the plane crash. Because of your confinement to the hospital, your mind has been too free to dwell on it until it is almost all you think about. It distracts you from what you view as your own weakness and gives a name to your pain. It gives you meaning and purpose, but it does not make you happy. It is becoming your unspoken obsession."

Halfway through her speech, Tim looked away. Her hand reached out and pulled his eyes back to hers.

"We have spoken of you often, McGee, because we worry about you. Your family is worried. Your friends are worried. Your doctors are worried. We care about you _and_ about the case, but we cannot make it our obsession as you have...and as we do not think you should."

Tim looked at her (because Ziva was still holding onto his chin, not letting him look elsewhere), and he saw her concern.

"I have to, Ziva. I have to...I have to _know_."

A sad smile lighted Ziva's face. "I know you do...because you are correct. You are _not_ like me. I would want to know, but not for closure. I would want to know so that I could take care of the ones responsible. While that might be a part of your desire, it is more just that you _need_ it, yes?"

Tim shrugged, feeling awkward. "You make it sound like an addiction or something."

"Obsession can be that way. McGee, we all care about you. Can you not see that how you are acting is worrisome?"

"I want to get better, Ziva...but..." Tim pulled his chin out of her hand and looked down. "...but what if I don't? What if I'm...permanently damaged? What if my...my bones don't ever heal completely? What then?"

"If that happens, you will learn to make due with the abilities you still have."

"What if I don't want to just 'make due'?"

To his surprise, Ziva smiled and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "It is all right to be afraid, McGee. You do not have to be angry."

"Being mad is easier than being afraid."

"Yes, but that does not mean it is better."

Tim quirked a smile at her and looked at the rods still supporting his healing ilium. "It still hurts, you know. This...thing. They're finally going to take it out, but I'm afraid it will only hurt more."

"You can only find out in one way," she said reasonably. "And it will happen anyway. You may as well be happy about it."

Tim laughed. "How come you're the one who came to cheer me up?"

Ziva stood and turned around to push the button for the elevator.

"I called heads," she said with no elaboration.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Two days later..._

"Everything looks as good as we could have hoped, Agent McGee. Your fracture appears to be healed enough that the plates and screws will be sufficient to hold the ilium together until the bone heals completely. I see no reason to postpone the surgery to remove the external fixation."

Tim nodded, trying to look pleased, not anxious...not that he was fooling anyone in the room.

"Now, I know you won't feel like doing so, but I'll just remind you that you are not yet ready to go for a morning jog, or even a jaunt to the bathroom without support...and permission. While we don't want your muscles to atrophy, we also don't want to overdo your recovery and force your pelvis to do more than it can."

"So that means you don't get any belly-dancing classes, Probie."

Gratefully distracted from the upcoming procedure, Tim looked over at Tony. "Belly dancing?"

"Hula?"

The doctor smiled and slipped out to get things ready.

_Thwack!_

"Thanks, Boss."

"Your parents are coming, Timothy?"

"Tomorrow. Dad had to teach a class today. He's taken too much time off already. They're going to come for the weekend."

"Of course, Tim didn't bother telling them about the surgery until it was already scheduled," Sarah said in pseudo-irritation as she fiddled with Tim's blankets. "He knew they wouldn't be able to make it."

Tim swatted at Sarah's hand. "They don't need to come for what will be a routine procedure."

"Then why are _you_ so freaked out?" Sarah asked pointedly.

"I'm not."

"Liar," Abby said with a smile.

"Yeah, McGee, you're not very good at the lying thing. You should probably work on that a bit more."

"I'll do that," Tim said, rolling his eyes.

"Won't you be happy to get rid of the rods, though, McGee?" Jimmy asked, a little tentatively.

Tim looked first at Jimmy and then down at his waist. He nodded, but he ran his hands over the surface of the rods. As much as he hated them, he also saw them as a visible expression of the support he had, the support he _needed_ in order to function even at the limited level he could currently manage.

"It'll be all right, McGee," Gibbs said, eyeing Tim knowingly.

"I know."

The door opened, revealing the return of Tim's doctor who quickly ushered everyone out.

"It's time to prep Agent McGee for surgery. We'll keep you apprised, but it won't take long at all for the procedure. Just give us room."

Reluctantly, everyone left. Sarah hugged Tim as tightly as she dared, while Abby contented herself with a cheery wave as she left the room. Tony was giving dorky thumbs up signs while Ziva and Jimmy murmured unintelligible good luck messages. Ducky and Gibbs were the last ones to leave the room.

"Don't worry about a thing, Timothy. All will be well."

"All?" Tim asked, with a trace of cynicism.

"All," Gibbs said firmly. "Things'll work out, McGee."

Tim quirked a half-smile at him and then leaned back, waiting for the next step in his recovery to be completed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"Okay, one more time, Tim! Back and forth!"

Tim struggled to make one more circuit...with the aid of his omnipresent crutches. His arms were shaking and he wasn't sure he was going to make it, but he pushed himself forward. The physical exertions were about the only thing that successfully distracted him from his other problems.

"You're doing real good, Tim! You're almost there!"

"Go me," Tim gasped, shoving the crutches forward microscopically and then taking another step. "You know...this shouldn't be this hard. Not now..."

"You couldn't do even this three weeks ago," Nathan said reasonably. "Your nerves seem to be completely intact..."

"...and I'm sure feeling every nerve..." Tim said, muttering beneath Nathan's encouraging words as he moved forward again.

"...Your ilium is healing well..."

"...could have fooled me..."

"...and you're even negotiating stairs..."

"...yeah, two an hour..."

"...and your attitude is improving," he finished drily.

Tim let out an exhausted chuckle.

"Ten more feet."

"Might as well be ten miles...I don't think I'm going to make it."

"Yeah, you are because I'm not carrying you to the finish line. You can do it."

Tim focused on that line ahead of him. It seemed so far away.

Ten feet. Eight feet. Five feet. One foot. ...six inches. Tim made it to the finish line, lost hold of his crutches and would have toppled but strong arms caught him, supported his tired body to a nearby bench and gently lowered him down. Sighing with relief, he looked up, expecting to see Nathan there. He was surprised instead to find Tony looking down at him with an expression of slight concern. Tim hadn't even seen him come into the room.

"You all right, Probie?"

Tim considered what would be an appropriate answer to that question. Depending on the context, any answer would be the complete truth...and perhaps also a lie. Again, as it had too many times in the past few weeks, the face of the still-unknown copilot welled up in his mind. Still unknown. _No_ progress had been made and it was beginning to appear that it would remain an unsolved case. No one had taken credit for it. No one had tried to make a clean sweep by taking out Tim as well. Even Fornell, whose determination to solve the mystery was surpassed only by Tim's own, had been forced to put his investigation on the back burner. Tim might understand that move logically, but emotionally he was infuriated by the fact that everyone was moving on...or maybe just by the fact that _he_ seemed unable to do the same. So...in that context, no he wasn't all right.

Then, as Tony continued to stare at him, his concern increasing with Tim's extended silence, Tim thought about the question in the physical context. His doctors claimed he was right on schedule; Nathan appeared to have no concerns about the continuing pain and weakness on his right side...and yet...he was still on pain medication three months after the crash. He could barely hobble around on his crutches and the exercises he was doing reduced him to a quivering mass of goo. They said he was fine...but he didn't _feel_ fine. And what if he didn't fully recover? What if he had to deal with a permanent disability for the rest of his life? How would he tolerate such a blow, such a shift in his own self-perception?

In short, he was still frustrated, tired, aching, weak and not particularly happy.

"McGee?"

All the thoughts which passed through his mind remained unspoken. Tim simply shrugged. There were no words to explain what he felt. The short answer to Tony's questions was _no, not really_.

"McGee..." Tony sat down beside Tim on the bench looking almost mournful.

"I'm okay, Tony," Tim said quickly, hoping to forestall another pep talk. They had happened so often of late that they were losing their effectiveness. Tim looked on his rehabilitation as nothing more than something to fill up his days while he waited to see if he'd be able to get his life back.

"No."

"No?" Tim repeated in surprise.

"No, McGee. You're _not_ okay."

Tim looked over at the floor where his crutches still lay...too far for him to walk to get to them...and he shrugged again.

"Sometimes, Probie, the long-suffering act gets tiresome," Tony said with a trace of impatience.

"Well, living sometimes gets tiresome, Tony," Tim retorted without really thinking about what he said, his mind on his crutches...so close and yet so far away. "...but we all have to deal with it."

Tony's expression shifted to one of shock. "You don't want to live, McGee? Is it really that bad?"

"No, it's not. Doesn't mean it's not tiresome," Tim said, thinking back to Gibbs telling him he wasn't allowed to die. ...but he _had_ died, very briefly. His heart had stopped for a few seconds. He had died...and sometimes, he wasn't sure it was such a good thing that he had listened to Gibbs' injunction.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim saw Tony hesitate and then reach out and clasp Tim's arm, just above the elbow.

"McGee..."

"Have you found anything?" Tim interrupted.

"No."

"Are you even looking?"

"You know the answer to that already, McGee."

Tim nodded. "Nathan, would you be so kind as to get me my crutches? I seem to have dropped them."

Nathan smiled at the formality. "Sure thing, but you know we'll be wheeling you out."

"I know."

"McGee..." Tony tried again.

"Are you my ride back today?" Tim asked. His interruptions had little fire in them. He knew that everyone was being incredibly patient with him. Maybe if...

"Yeah. I'll go pull the car around."

Tony got up and started to leave.

"Tony?"

"What?"

"Thanks."

Tony half-turned back, obviously about to ask for what, but Tim dropped his head, not wanting or knowing how to explain what his gratitude was for.

After another moment, Tony left. Tim watched him go and, with minimal help from Nathan, maneuvered himself into the wheelchair and then waited with a tolerable amount of patience to be taken out to the curbside pickup.

The ride back to his apartment was mostly silent. When they reached his place. Tony got out and helped Tim up the stairs and saw him safely installed in his apartment before leaving.

"Thanks, Tony," Tim said again.

"You're welcome."

Tim watched him leave. He couldn't explain himself to anyone because no one seemed really to understand what was wrong. Ziva had said some things that were flirting with accuracy a while ago, but now...now, most of the anger was gone. Not all of it, but most. Now, what was left was the real need he still felt to find out the truth. He needed that truth...and only in part to prove to himself that it wasn't his fault. He needed it because it was killing him not to know why he had almost been killed. He needed to know why his friends had died, why the still-nameless man had tricked his way onto a secure FBI plane with the apparent intention to kill everyone on board, and not just by crashing the plane.

Later that night, he crutched to his computer. He couldn't tolerate sitting in that position for too long but it would be long enough. He just had to check on the searches he conducted every day...and he had to sneak a look at the open file. Technically, he shouldn't be looking...but in this case, everyone seemed to be looking the other way for that. He was grateful for it because even if there was nothing to see, he needed to see that there was nothing.

His right side began to throb, signaling both that it was time to take his medication _and_ it was time to stop sitting on his computer chair. As he stood to head to his bedroom (via the bathroom to take his pain pills), he was startled by a knock on the door. It wasn't _too_ surprising. People often came by to see him, for which he was grateful considering the fact that he had no ability to go around to places himself, unless he was willing to rely on his friends carting him and a wheelchair everywhere. While his father had long since inured himself to the inconvenience, Tim had not and he was still nursing a hope that he'd soon be in a state where he could start taking care of himself again.

Wincing, he changed direction and headed for his door, thinking that whoever it was had better be bringing amazing news or be the next best thing since sliced bread. Otherwise, he wasn't going to be at all excited to have been forced to open his door instead of his pill bottle.

He didn't even bother looking through his peephole (he had moved his dartboard away from its occasional location over the door). He simply pulled open the door and then had to blink a few times at the man standing there.

"Agent Fornell."

"Agent McGee."

They stood , staring at each other until Tim felt his arms start to shake.

"Sorry. You obviously shouldn't be standing for so long, Agent McGee. Can I come in?"

Tim nodded and moved back.

"Don't let me keep you from whatever you were going to do."

"I need to take my medication...and then, I was going to go to bed, but I'm assuming that you didn't come here to watch me sleep."

A slight smile crossed Fornell's craggy features.

"No. That's not why I came." With a deft hand, which again surprised Tim, Fornell directed Tim back toward his bedroom. Tim was in need of the support; so he didn't complain even though it was a bit odd to be helped around by Tobias Fornell. The last time they'd really interacted (besides his first awakening and a subsequent interview or two) was during the internal investigation into the death of La Grenouille...and as Tim recalled, he hadn't acquitted himself all that well. However, Tim watched, bemused, as Fornell bustled around his bedroom, bringing him his medication, a glass of water and making sure Tim was as comfortable as possible before settling himself on a chair beside Tim's bed.

"What are you doing here, Agent Fornell?"

"You were looking at the case file again."

No need to specify _which_ case file. "Yes."

"Why?"

Tim shrugged. "No real reason. No logical reason, anyway."

"Do you have everything we have?"

"I think so, but I guess if you were holding something back I wouldn't really know about it."

"Guess not."

Tim straightened, winced and leaned back again. "_Are_ you holding something back?"

"Not something."

"What do you mean?"

Fornell actually looked uncomfortable.

"There _is_ something...or some_one_."

"What do you mean? There's a connection?"

"Not exactly."

"Then, what?"

"The real copilot actually wasn't killed by the imposter."

"What?"

"It was a home invasion. We found the guy who did it. So far as we can tell, it's an unrelated coincidence."

"Gibbs doesn't believe in coincidences...and apparently the FBI doesn't believe in cooperation."

"Sometimes, things _are_ genuine coincidences, Agent McGee."

"I don't believe it."

"Don't. That's your perogative."

"Why are you telling _me _this?"

Now, Fornell leaned in. "Because I understand, as near as anyone can, how you feel about this mess. I want to find out who did it, who was involved, who, what, why, how...I want to know how come we screwed up so monumentally. I recruited Larson myself. I know how well he works...worked. I want to be able to tell his family that there was a reason for what happened. Do you understand?"

Tim nodded, almost before Fornell finished speaking.

"I've been ordered to leave this case to the side. We have too much to do as it is...but you have time; _you_ want this more than I do. If you find something, _I _want to be in on the takedown."

"Why now?"

"Because now, the orders I've been given are being enforced. Before they weren't. ...and you're getting to the point where you can conduct the investigation, at least virtually."

"It might not happen, might not work out. There might not be anything to find."

"That's true, but if there is...I think you can find it, Agent McGee. Don't think that I've forgotten the kinds of things you've done in the past."

Tim flushed.

"So that means that you can do them again. As soon as I can manage it, I'll give you access to the FBI case file...the complete one."

"It's harder without NCIS access. How much was left out?"

"Enough."

"For?"

"For the FBI to save face," he said baldly. "This isn't something they want to deal with. A crazy guy who somehow tricked his way onto a plane is much better than missing a terrorist plot."

"And they're willing to risk it _being_ a terrorist plot?"

"No. They're investigating...covertly."

Tim rubbed his head, his fingers trailing over the healing scars from the crash, he was confused.

"This doesn't make sense. What you're saying...I just..."

"Maybe it's your medication."

Tim glared. "Don't treat me like an idiot, Fornell. You know I'm not."

Every scrap of amusement left Fornell's face and he was extremely serious. So much so that Tim was a little nervous.

"I don't think you're an idiot, McGee. I think you need to find out what's going on...and so do I. I don't like things going wrong on my watch."

"Why? Worrying about losing face?" he asked sarcastically.

To his surprise, Fornell smiled again.

"No. Not at my age. I don't have much on my face worth preserving." He stood. "You'll be getting the information, McGee...at some point. What you choose to do with it...that's your problem."

He walked out of the room and Tim heard his front door open...but not close. He started to stand when Fornell came back in.

"McGee," he said, "I don't want this to become an obsession that ruins your life. You have too much going for you...and quite frankly, I don't think you could tolerate a soul destroying obsession. Right now, I think it will be better for you to see how little there really is...and possibly find more." His voice took on a strange tone that Tim couldn't quite identify. "You need to remember what really _is_ important, not what you _think_ is important...because, smart guy like you, you know the difference." Then, before Tim could say anything, he withdrew and Tim heard his front door close.

Tim was tired from the long day...but he didn't go to sleep for a long time after Fornell's departure.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_Three months later..._

"So...how does that feel?" Nathan asked.

Tim stared down at himself, biting his lip anxiously.

"I don't know."

"You don't know? It's _your _body, Tim."

Tim continued to stare at the part of himself that seemed strangely divorced from the rest of him. It was a part that didn't obey his commands...or at least not quickly. Slowly, he sank down onto the bench and, for the first time since his breakdown in front of Gibbs, he began to cry. It wasn't hysterical weeping, rather a disconsolate sobbing.

Nathan's eyes widened in surprise and he sat down beside Tim in a hurry.

"Whoa, Tim, what's up?"

"It's not getting better. It's not getting any better. It's been this way for weeks and it's not getting better." Tim was slightly embarrassed by his reaction to what should have been a simple question about how he felt after another session, but his anxiety had been building with his growing fear of having plateaued in his healing. No getting any better. There was a lot less pain, but it was still there and his leg felt too weak, unstable. He still had to rely on a cane for assistance and he couldn't get back to his life, the life he wanted, no _needed_, so desperately. He couldn't get back to normalcy without getting back his formerly (mostly) fit status.

Fornell had not given him the full FBI file and, mostly out of fear of being discovered, either by the FBI or by Gibbs (who would probably ream him good), he hadn't done the kind of digging that would have been required had he tried to find it himself. Tim wasn't sure if that meant Fornell hadn't been _able_ to get it to him or that he just had been lying to Tim when he came over. ...but if he'd been lying, why bother mentioning it in the first place? That made no sense either.

So, he had no progress with his leg and no progress with the case. Nothing was going right...and now, he was crying about it.

"Tim, does it still hurt?" Nathan asked.

Tim laughed bitterly. "Yes. It always hurts, not as bad, but I still can't walk on it right. It doesn't even feel like it's really _part_ of me anymore. It's like this lump grafted onto my body and I can't..." He stopped talking and tried to stop the tears as well because it was really silly that he hadn't been able to deal with it in something like a rational manner.

"When was your last CT scan? Before or after that spill you had last month?"

Tim winced just thinking about it. He had fallen down the steps of his apartment building when his cane had slipped after a rainstorm. "Before."

"Not since then?"

Tim shook his head, wiping uselessly at the tears on his cheeks.

"I'm going to schedule one for you."

"Why? I didn't rebreak my pelvis. I think I'd notice if I had another fracture."

"Lie down," Nathan ordered.

Tim, too used to trusting Nathan and obeying his orders, lay down on the bench and winced as Nathan began to move his right leg up and down, feeling the bones and ligaments, instructing him to move his leg back and forth, up and down. A worry line creased his forehead.

"What's wrong?" Tim asked.

"I'm scheduling a CT scan, for today if I can."

"Why?" Tim sat up again.

"I don't know why I didn't insist on a CT last month. It would have been that much better."

"Nathan, what is it? Why do I need another CT?"

"I think you may have an acetabular fracture."

"What does that mean in plain English?"

"It means that the socket of your hip joint is cracked. It can't be too bad; otherwise, you wouldn't be able to move around at all without a lot more pain than you've indicated you feel. Probably the only reason you weren't feeling enough pain to think there was something else wrong is because you're already using a cane to bear some of your weight and you're still taking small doses of your pain medication. Stay right here."

Nathan walked away, leaving Tim fidgeting nervously. Another fracture? Another injury to heal? Something else to worry about? He didn't know anything about acetabular fractures, but he knew something about the hip joint. He knew people got their hips replaced when the joint was...broken or whatever. How come he hadn't thought to mention the lingering pain? Why hadn't he said something? By the time Nathan returned, Tim was well on his way to working himself into a depression about something else in his life going wrong.

"Okay, Tim, we lucked out and they had a cancellation and can put you through right now."

"How serious is this?" Tim asked.

"Depends," Nathan said without hedging. "We just need to get a look at your hip and then we can take whatever other steps are necessary."

Tim began to stand but Nathan held him down.

"No, you shouldn't be putting weight on your leg at all, not until we know for sure what the damage is."

"But I've been walking on it for over two weeks."

"Exactly. Just let me grab a wheelchair."

Tim chewed on his tongue nervously as Nathan brought over a wheelchair, something he'd hoped never to need again. Carefully, he transferred himself into it and felt himself growing more and more tense as they neared the CT scan room. What else could go wrong?

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Okay, Tim, that's it," the technician said encouragingly as she slid him out of the claustrophobic tube.

Tim nodded. There hadn't even been time to call anyone and tell them that there was another problem. He wished he had. It would have been nice to know that someone was out there waiting for him. He slowly got himself dressed and waited for the doctor and Nathan to come in and tell him what damage was done.

He didn't have long to wait.

The door opened.

"You want to call someone first, Tim?" Nathan asked.

"Do I _need_ to?" Tim asked in return.

"Not necessarily," the doctor said with a smile.

"Okay. What is it?"

"You do have a minor acetabular fracture, probably caused by your fall."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that you are set back a bit in your rehabilitation but not permanently. In fact, this should be something of a relief to you since it means that your lingering difficulties were not entirely due to your initial fracture."

"But now there's another problem."

"Yes, but your fracture is very minor. Thank your lucky stars that you were still on a cane. We'll need you to go back to crutches for a few weeks and we'll run a few more tests to see if you'll need internal fixation."

"Again?"

"Yes."

Tim sighed. "Okay. So...what's the prognosis?"

"It varies. You'll be at a higher risk for arthritis in your hip later on in life and there are other possible complications."

"Such as?"

"Heterotropic ossification, necrosis on the femoral head. These are all things we will do our best to prevent because we know they are possible."

Tim nodded his head again, not knowing what else to do.

"You should call someone and ask them to pick you up. You shouldn't be driving anymore."

Tim tried to laugh. "You know, it's funny. I feel exactly the same as I did before I came to the hospital and yet suddenly, I'm not able to walk or drive again."

"Call one of your friends, Tim," Nathan urged.

"We'll need to take some x rays before you go but while there was space for the CT, we're facing a backlog on the x rays. It will be about an hour before you can go back."

Tim nodded again and reached for his phone. Nathan and the doctor left and Tim stared after them for a few seconds.

_What am I going to say?_

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Fornell sat impatiently in his car, coffee in hand, cursing the fact that he seemed to be picking up Gibbs' bad habits...like an addiction to coffee. It had taken a long time to get the permissions...or rather to get someone like Larson who knew when to look the other way while he appropriated the files on the investigation of the plane crash.

He looked at his watch. He was certain that Tim should have been back by now. It was _possible_ he'd got the hour wrong, seeing as he hadn't actually asked for it.

To his surprise, two cars pulled up at the same time: Tim's fancy Porsche and one of the NCIS sedans. Tim got out of the sedan...on crutches. Gibbs got out of the driver's side and Tony got out of the Porsche. He couldn't hear the conversation, but Tim was shaking his head. Fornell debated just brazenly getting out of his car and joining the motley crew, but since he knew Gibbs wouldn't look too kindly on him feeding Tim information when he was still recovering, he decided against it. Fornell wanted Tim on the case. It was selfishness on his part but he had to admit that he rather thought it would help Tim more than it would hurt him.

So he waited as the three went up the stairs with some obvious protests from Tim as they went. Gibbs was being strangely solicitous of Tim and he could tell that Tony was hovering anxiously around him but trying not to _look_ like he was. He wondered if the rest of the gang would show up...or rather _when_ they'd show up.

Right as he thought it, two more cars pulled up.

"Hey, hey, the gang's all here," Fornell sang softly to himself, taking another sip and settling himself down for a long wait.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It took a few hours, but Fornell hadn't survived in the FBI for as many years as he had by being impatient. Finally, they came out together, all talking together, obviously worried. One by one, or in pairs, they drove away and with a relieved sigh, Fornell got out of his car, pausing to toss his long-empty coffee cup into a trash can.

File in hand, he jogged up the steps and to Tim's door. He knocked politely and listened as some shuffling sounds indicated the approach. The door opened and Fornell was surprised to see obvious signs of tears on Tim's face although shock replaced any despair he might have been feeling before.

"Agent Fornell," he said. "What...?" Then, comprehension dawned. "It's been a while."

"Took longer than I thought it would. Since I'm not supposed to be investigating, they weren't all that keen on letting me see the file." He held it out.

Tim took it and gave a half smile. "Well, only half my life is failing, then," he said, almost to himself.

Fornell arched a questioning eyebrow.

"I might not get to this for a little while."

"Why not?" That was a surprise although Fornell felt he did a reasonable job in keeping the surprise out of his voice.

"I have an acetabular fracture that is going to require open reduction, internal fixation and that means I'll be laid up for a little while...in case you were wondering."

It was nice to see that he still had some snark in him, in spite of the tears in his eyes, but Fornell could see that he was devastated about it.

"And how long will that take?"

"Depends on how my body reacts to it, if I can recover, if the rehabilitation works, if there are no complications...which is unlikely." Tim set the file down and crutched to a chair before sitting down and staring at him. "Is there anything new in there you haven't told me?"

"Some."

"You going to tell me what else you were hiding?" Tim asked, his voice becoming a bit waspish.

"_I_ wasn't hiding anything. This is new stuff since I was pulled off the case. I didn't know about it."

"Well?"

"Well, you can read the information yourself."

"What is it, Fornell?"

"You're not going to like it."

"And I'll like it better if I read it later than if you pay me the courtesy of telling me now?"

Fornell smiled. This was a different side to Tim, one he'd not really seen before. Too tired to care about respect or too worried to be afraid of something so prozaic as a single person?

"They've come to the conclusion that it's a crime of opportunity carried out by an intelligent but crazy man, that he witnessed the murder of the copilot and then used whatever skills he apparently had to..."

"You had better be joking."

"The evidence points to nothing else."

"And they want it to be just a fluke, not a planned attack?"

"You seem very sure that it _is_ a planned attack."

Tim shifted on his chair and winced a little. "I've seen nothing to convince me otherwise."

"Well, you can look at that and draw your own conclusions."

"You still want to know when I do?" It was a challenge. The real question was _are you going to toe the party line?_

"I told you before. If there's something more to it, I want to be in on the takedown."

Tim nodded and shoved himself back upright, grabbing for his crutches. Slowly, he crutched to the counter, picked up the file and headed back to his room.

"You can show yourself out, I assume."

Fornell nodded, although Tim couldn't see him. "I can do that."

He left without a backward glance. Personally, he was more of Tim's mind than his superiors', but he had to bow to the evidence...or lack thereof. Tim, in his current state of medical leave, did not.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim tossed the file onto his bed and tried to ignore it...but he couldn't. He had to see what was there. Instead of going to bed as he had planned, he stayed up until the early hours of the morning reading through the evidence, the case, the conclusions. It was true, what Fornell had said. Most of the evidence pointed to something isolated, crazy...and meaningless. Most of it. Not all. There was nothing in there about his statement that the killer had been at the conference. He still remembered seeing him there. In fact, he hadn't been the first one to notice him. Keating had been. He had nudged Tim and said they had a shadow and maybe he was a fan of NCIS.

Why had his words been discounted? Why didn't the FBI care about what he had said? Was it really all a tactic for saving face?

_Or is it just that you've become irrational and are seeing things that aren't there?_ a small voice inside him asked. Part of him knew that it was a distinct possibility, but he couldn't accept it. He _wouldn't_ accept it...not until the evidence was incontrovertible...and this wasn't. It ignored his account and it didn't take into account what he had told them about the others.

"They're wrong," he said. "Wrong. Wrong. _Wrong_!"

But no matter how many times he said it, there was nothing to which he could point to say _why_ he was so sure.


	11. Epilogue?

**Epilogue??**

_Two months later..._

"So what does that mean?" Tim asked.

"It means only that it will take longer than we thought," Nathan said.

"Come on, Nathan. Don't make this into some sort of pep talk. It won't help."

"I'm not," Nathan said sternly. "You had a fractured pelvis and then an acetabular fracture. Either one of those can lead to permanent disability. You're walking..."

"...like an old man..."

"...you've said most of the pain is gone..."

"...but not the weakness..."

"...and there's no sign of ossification..."

"...so far," Tim finished bitterly.

Nathan sat down beside Tim. "Don't take this as a sign that you're never going to heal, Tim. It can take over a year for a pelvic fracture to heal completely. Six to eight months for an acetabular fracture."

Tim shook his head in frustration. "I take a step and I'm afraid for just a second that my leg is going to collapse. I can't do my job like this. I can't go back to my normal life if I can't even _walk_ with confidence, let alone run."

"When's your next checkup?"

Tim's mouth twisted in a smile. Nathan knew his schedule better than Tim did.

"You can ask Dr. Lane. He'll tell you the same thing. Remember that you were putting weight on that fracture for a couple of weeks before we discovered it. That aggravated the injury. Your last x ray showed good progress."

"Then, why can't I tell any difference?"

"Because it's a slow and steady progress, not all at once."

"I should get to work. Even if I can't do anything important..." He sighed and pushed himself up, hesitating for just a moment before taking a step. When he put his foot down, he felt that wobbling which signaled the difficulties he faced in his continuing quest for physical recovery. He wasn't ever going to be satisfied with anything less than full recovery. _What if it doesn't happen?_

"Tim, you have to keep up the faith. You can't look on this as a useless exercise."

"Yeah, I know." He couldn't say more than that, couldn't explain better than that what was wrong...because the seemingly ineffective rehab was only part of the problem...a large part, but only a part.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"McGee! Where have you been?" Tony demanded as Tim hobbled off the elevator.

"At rehab, Tony. Just like every other day."

"But you're late!"

"We need your help," Ziva said. "Tony cannot handle the data and I do not wish to do something wrong."

"It's not that hard," Tim said. "I showed you guys how to filter the information through my program before I left."

"Well, every time _I_ filter it, I get nothing. ...and there's got to be _something_ there, Probie. Otherwise, why would they have been trying to destroy it?"

"To drive you nuts?" Tim suggested with a half-hearted smile. It was obvious, though, that his mind wasn't really on the problem at hand.

"What is the matter, McGee?" Ziva asked.

"Nothing. Send the data over to me. I'll filter through it," he said and then added in an undertone, "Not like I can do anything else worthwhile."

Tony grabbed his arm, halting his progress and making Tim wobble dangerously on his unsturdy leg.

"McGee, what's up?"

"Let go, Tony."

"Not until you tell us what's going on."

"I said let me go!"

Tim wrenched his arm back, unbalanced himself and tottered very briefly before falling to the floor when his leg collapsed, unable to bear all his weight. Humiliated by the fact that he couldn't even remain upright, Tim felt his face start to burn. He pushed away Tony's apologies and his assistance and got up on his own, wincing slightly. He wanted nothing more than to run away and hide (not that he could really run at all) but instead, he limped to his desk, acting like nothing had happened.

"Send me the data," he repeated and then looked up at Tony, daring him to say anything.

He didn't. He retreated back to his own desk and within seconds, Tim had the data from the current case. There was a lot of it, pulled from the suspect's computer. He began to sift through it. A lot of computer forensics, and computer work in general, was, he knew, less about knowing the procedures than about feeling one's way through the morass by knowing what to ask. It was hard to teach. It just had to be learned through experience and he was actually quite good at it...even if it was failing him in the only case he really cared about. In reality, although he was glad to be back at NCIS in _any_ capacity, he didn't care about the cases they were investigating because he felt as though he wasn't really a part of them. He was dead weight...like his leg, to be used as far as possible...but that wasn't very far.

It took less than half an hour for him to distill the myriad data down to a few cogent facts. During that time, he was thinking less about the work and much more about himself. He was slogging through his life, wanting more, unable to have it. He wondered if he would have felt this way had someone else survived with him.

_If only Johnson hadn't moved, if only she had stayed down..._ The image of Johnson's head whipping back from the force of the bullet was still so horribly vivid in his mind, even after all this time.

If only he could satisfy this unsettled feeling inside him that said it wasn't over. He was fumbling his way toward...something, but it was so far away, an infinite distance it seemed, that he didn't know what it was, and to be honest, it frightened him. He was in no condition to face anything, to do anything, and...

"McGee."

Tim looked up from his computer and realized that he hadn't sent on what he'd found.

"Sorry, Boss. I've got the–"

"Come with me." He walked away without looking behind him to see if Tim was following.

Tim pushed himself up and followed, wondering what Gibbs wanted that couldn't be discussed in the bullpen. He swallowed nervously as Gibbs led him into one of the conference rooms.

"Have a seat," he said, his voice mild.

Tim sat and felt his eyes widening in confusion (and a bit of nervousness) as Gibbs stared at him. He looked down.

"Anything you want to tell me?"

"About what?"

"About why it is that you hate working here now?"

Tim looked up. "I don't, Boss! Why would you–?"

"You don't care about NCIS anymore, Tim, and it shows."

"I do! I do care."

"What is the name of the suspect in our latest case?"

"What?"

"What's his name?"

Tim wracked his brains. He knew it. He'd been looking at the data just minutes ago.

"What about the woman he killed? What's her name?"

"I–"

"Where was the body found?"

"I don't..." Tim trailed off at the expression on Gibbs' face. Pity.

"That's because there _was_ no body. This case is about drugs, not about murder. Our suspects are a man and a woman, working together and the data you were looking at came from Audrey Cranson's hard drive. You still going to pretend that the case means anything to you?"

Tim slumped down, feeling defeated. Gibbs sat down across from him.

"So...you want to tell me why it is that you don't care?"

Tim remained silent.

"You're going through the motions. You're not really working. This stuff you're doing...you can do it in your sleep. You don't draw conclusions, make hypotheses. You just wade through it and then move on. That's not the way a special agent needs to work."

"I'm _not_ a special agent!" Tim flared up. "Not really. Not anymore. I'm only here because there's nowhere else to go. You need someone to do the computer work because Abby doesn't have time. She's as good as I am, probably. It would make sense if she was. She can do everything else. I don't think you really need me here at all, but you probably just feel pity for me, for how little I can actually do anymore and so you keep me around and have me do these things as make-work and..."

_Thwack!_

"You think having a bum leg makes you worthless, McGee?"

Tim said nothing.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question, McGee."

"No," Tim whispered, almost inaudibly.

"You're lying but you're right. It doesn't."

Tim again remained silent. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if NCIS took special needs special agents, the ones who couldn't actually do the required work.

"What's going on?"

"Same old, same old, Boss."

"And what is that, McGee?"

"I'm going to rehab that doesn't seem to help. I'm coming here and doing work that a blindfolded idiot could do. I'm going home and–" He bit off the end of the sentence.

"And what?"

"And doing nothing. Just like always." Tim suppressed the tightness in his throat. He hadn't cried in weeks and he had no intention of doing so again.

"Always?"

"Yes. No matter how hard I try to get away from it, I'm just your resident computer geek who fills in for the more important people. Sometimes I get to play field agent, but now...now, I can't even do that. Couldn't even..." He stopped talking again. "That all, Boss?"

"No. What is it that you want?"

"Want? From what?"

"From your life, McGee. You don't seem to be happy with anything you're doing. You seem to have given up on everything. So...what do you want?"

"I want to go back in time and go camping with my family instead of ending up on that plane. If that's not possible, I want to go back to that plane and be able to kill him on the first shot instead of the last. If that's not possible, I want to go back and..."

"And what?" Gibbs asked. "Give up? Die instead of live?"

"I did die, you know, Boss."

"What?"

"On the helicopter. I died. My heart stopped. I stopped breathing. I died. I came back..."

"And you wish you hadn't?"

"I wish I had known that my life would end up like this. Stuck with nothing."

"You think that the only way your life is worthwhile is if you're a special agent?"

"I can't run. I can barely walk. I fell over just today. I could walk better when I was two years old!"

"And? I'm waiting for you to answer my question, McGee."

"I feel..." Tim hated that Gibbs was trying to make him answer. It brought the tears closer and it made him _feel_ it more. He breathed noisily for a few seconds. "...I'm afraid, Boss. Okay? I'm scared. Go ahead and laugh, deride, give me that stupid glare you give when your agents aren't performing up to specifications. Because I'm _not_! ...and I don't think I ever will again...but I don't know what else to do with my life and I'm afraid that it's all going to go down the drain, lost forever...or even worse, I'll have to live the rest of my life knowing that if it happens I'll be completely unable to deal with it because of this stupid leg! I can't run away. I can't pursue. I can't do anything but sit at a desk and wait to be mowed down by the next guy with a gun."

Gibbs stared at him...but not with a glare. Dare Tim presume that he might have surprised his boss a little bit?

"Is that what you expect?"

"Yes," Tim said, knowing the single word was nowhere near enough to explain the turmoil in his head, but feeling that it was the best he could do.

"Why?"

"I just do."

"Why?"

Tim started to stand but was forced back down by Gibbs' unexpectedly strong hand on his shoulder.

"It doesn't matter, Boss."

"Doesn't matter? Why not? You're a member of my team and if you feel threatened, you should let me know."

"I'm not really, you know."

"Not what?"

"I'm not a real member of your team. Not anymore."

"How did you come to that conclusion?"

"Because your team has to be made up of special agents who can fulfill their obligations. I can't," Tim said, trying to sound rational and logical. "I'm unable to do it. Really, you should just get rid of me and put someone else in my place."

"Is that what you want?"

Tim shrugged in lieu of answering. "I know you have to have a full team...a fully-functioning team."

"Are you trying to get me to fire you, McGee?"

Tim shook his head.

"Then, why are you trying to tell me that you know better than me who should be on my team?"

"I'm not. You..."

"I am fully aware of your current status, _Agent _McGee," Gibbs said, more formally than Tim had probably ever heard him speak. "...physically, at least. I know you're still a long way from being able to do what you did. I also know that you have a good chance of regaining your position, having been updated by your physical therapist. What I am now no longer sure of is your mental status. You seem to have decided that you are worthless, that you shouldn't even have a job and you sound like you've given up on pretty much everything...on top of which, you now are telling me, _for the first time_, that you feel threatened and didn't think that was important enough to mention before. What are you even talking about with that shrink of yours?"

"I'm...not seeing the shrink."

Gibbs stared at Tim again with that expression that appeared, impossibly, to denote surprise.

"Since when?" he asked with deceptive calm.

"I stopped going...a...a few months ago."

"Why?"

"Didn't see the point."

"Of what? Getting your head screwed on straight?"

"It wasn't my head that was screwed up, Boss. It was my body...and seeing a shrink isn't going to make my leg work any better."

"You're telling me that you're not having any problems beyond your leg?"

"That's right."

Gibbs' laugh was suffused with derision, making Tim flush in spite of himself.

"Why do you feel threatened?" Gibbs asked, changing subjects abruptly.

"I just do."

"Why?"

"Because it's not over, Boss."

"Do you have any evidence of that?"

"Beyond the fact that the case isn't closed? No."

"Then, why are you so sure?"

"I'm not."

Gibbs stood up and walked around the table, sitting down beside Tim. "McGee, you need to stop talking and start telling me what you mean."

"There's nothing to tell. I feel like there's something going on, but I have no evidence. I feel completely worthless and there's boundless evidence for that. Now, I can see that even you realize that I'm dead weight on your team and–"

_Thwack!_

"McGee! Knock it off! You stop telling me what _I _think about things. I _know_ what I think and what I think is that your problem has a lot less to do with your leg than it does with this!" He poked Tim in the middle of his forehead. "I don't know how in the world you got away with stopping your visits to the shrink but if you don't start them again on your own, I will physically pick you up and drag you there myself if I have to!"

"Boss, I don't _need_ them!"

_Thwack!_

"Yes, you do, and you're going to go!"

It was on Tim's lips to say something so childish as _you're not the boss of me!_ ...but reason prevailed in the realization that Gibbs most definitely _was_ the boss of him.

"Why? You think I'm paranoid?"

"No, I think you're making yourself feel worse than you should. It's not your fault, McGee! I told you that before."

"I know it's not."

"Really? Doesn't sound like it's sunk in at all."

"I couldn't have controlled that guy killing them...probably, but I should be able to give them what they deserve."

"And what's that?"

"An end."

"I don't see that they're going to care much one way or another now," Gibbs said drily.

Tim stood up, angry. "That doesn't mean they don't deserve it! They were all good people and they deserve to have a closed case! Not some waffling by the FBI because they want to save face and pretend that it was one guy who was crazy and did it all on his own! That's wrong! It's cowardly and _wrong_! I'm not going to let that be the final word...because I know it's not!"

Gibbs appeared unaffected by Tim's rant. "How do you know it's not?"

"Because it _can't_ be."

"Why not?"

Tim just looked at Gibbs, trying to ignore the trembling in his leg. He'd put too much weight on it and now was regretting it.

"McGee, why not?"

"Because I _know_ it's not." He took a step...and his right leg buckled beneath the weight. It would have sent him crashing to the floor for the second time that day but Gibbs proved that he hadn't lost his reflexes by catching him.

Tim extricated himself as quickly as he could but his leg still was tingling. It brought shamed tears to his eyes as he allowed Gibbs to help him back to a seat. He started massaging his leg, trying to control himself, trying to ease the trembling.

"I'm scared, Boss. I'm scared that I'll never find out what really happened, that I'll never know _why_ this happened to me. I'm scared that I'll have to be useless as a special agent and that I won't be able to get my life back."

"Is that your reason for thinking it's not over?"

"Not exactly. I can't tell you why. I just know that it's not."

Gibbs scrutinized him with those eyes that seemed to strip away every protective layer, leaving his mind, his intentions, his thoughts, open to view.

"You're not going to let this go, are you," he said, almost sadly.

"No." Tim saw no reason to lie.

"What if I were to make it an order?"

Tim gulped but didn't look away. "I'd have to tell you what you had me tell the secretary back when Tony was undercover as a prisoner."

Gibbs smiled a little. "And then?"

"Then, you'd either have to fire me or let me keep working on it. I won't stop, Boss. I can't. I have to end it. I can't let it keep going. There has to be an end."

"For you or for them?"

"For all of us."

"What if there isn't?"

"Then, I still won't stop."

"Even if–"

"No matter what," Tim said. "Boss, I won't. I...I can't. ...and no shrink is going to convince me that I should."

"What if there _is_ something more to it?"

"Then, I'll find them."

"And then?" Gibbs asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what will you do when you find these people who may or may not be actually involved?" With a cynical smile, he continued, "You have basically told me that your leg makes you worthless for special agent work. If you find these people, will your leg suddenly be healed, McGee?"

"Of course not."

"Then, how will you take them down?"

"You think I'm going to turn vigilante, Boss?"

"Are you?"

"Of course not!"

"Then, you'll tell me?"

"I–" In spite of himself, Tim hesitated. He wasn't sure why. Somehow, in his head, he had only ever pictured himself and Fornell taking down the mysterious participants...and a bum leg had never figured into the picture. He looked down at it. That annoying limb that was holding him back, keeping him from his life.

A hand on his shoulder brought his head back up. Gibbs was looking at him with something that, in any other person, would be read as sympathy.

"Tim, you are and always will be a valuable member of my team. Don't let your need to make sense out of a senseless act ruin your life...because it could."

He got up and walked out of the room, leaving Tim alone at the table, consumed with ambivalence about his words.

_He said I was valuable to his team...but doesn't he understand that I have to get this done?_

_He never said I had to stop. He didn't even suggest it._

_He was worried enough to warn me._

_He implied I could tell him when I find something._

_He also implied that I should give it up._

Tim sat, staring at the table, waffling back and forth about what was right to do.

_I have to finish it. I will. Some day._

That was what mattered. It did. It had to. Nothing Gibbs or anyone else said could change how important it was for him to find who else had been involved. Nothing would stop him.

Nothing.

Decision made, he stood, rubbed at his leg, and walked out the door, knowing that some day he would find them and he would get an end. There wouldn't be any uncertainty this time.

There would be an end.

FINIS?


End file.
